Otherwheres
by Syl
Summary: Four-year-old Barbara Gordon is left in the care of Dr. and Mrs. Wayne after being left orphaned. What happens next is a tale that might have been...
1. (Part 1)

Summary: Four-year-old Barbara Gordon is left in the care of Dr. and Mrs. Wayne after being left orphaned. What happens next is a tale that might have been...  
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to DC and Time/Warner; this is an original story that doesn't intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome.  
  
Copyright September 2000  
  
****  
  
Otherwheres  
By Syl Francis  
  
****  
  
Prologue  
  
Six-year-old Bruce looked up at his mother and smiled excitedly. He was sandwiched safely between his parents, Thomas and Martha Wayne. Today was his birthday and they'd celebrated with an early movie, The Mark of Zorro.   
  
"That was great, Mommy! Can we see it again?" he asked. Martha smiled down at him.  
  
"I don't know, sweetheart," she said, glancing up at her husband. "You'll have to ask your daddy." Bruce obediently turned to look up at his father.  
  
Thomas glanced at his wife.   
  
"Thanks," he said, ironically. He looked down at his son. "Maybe next Saturday, son. I'll be busy all this week with patients, *and* I promised Leslie that I'd lend a hand at the clinic."  
  
He ruffled his son's dark head. How like his mother, he thought.   
  
Bruce smiled and shrugged unconcernedly. "That's okay, daddy," he said. "The movie was fun, but we don't need to see again. I already promised Alfred that me and him could go to Robinson Park next Saturday."  
  
Thomas and Martha exchanged amused glances. Even at six, Bruce already put others' feelings before his own.  
  
They were startled by a voice in the dark.  
  
"Gimme your money and you won't get hurt!"  
  
Martha gasped. Thomas immediately shoved his family behind him. Little Bruce struggled to see around his father's long legs.  
  
"Please, we'll give you whatever you want," Thomas said calmly. "Just don't hurt us." He reached inside his coat.  
  
"Hold it!"   
  
Thomas froze. The robber stepped into the eerie circle of light given by the streetlamp. He was holding a massive gun aimed at Thomas' chest. "Keep your hands where I can see 'em!"  
  
Thomas nodded. He looked down at his little boy, and shoved him behind his back again. Martha was sobbing softly. He could feel her body trembling through his overcoat.  
  
With a sneering grin, the gunman rifled through Thomas' overcoat, finding his thick billfold inside. Flipping through it quickly, his grin broadened and he jammed it in his own pocket. Glancing up, he spotted Martha cowering behind her husband.  
  
"What do we have here?" he asked. Keeping his gun on Thomas, he reached across and touched her cheek. Martha let out a short scream. Bruce came out from behind his father's protective shield.  
  
"Don't you hurt my Mommy!" he cried, rushing the gunman.  
  
"Bruce!" Martha screamed. Thomas leaped at the robber, grabbing his wrist. The gun went off, the bullet ricocheting wildly off the pavement.   
  
"Somebody help us!" Martha screamed.   
  
Not a trained fighter, Thomas was quickly at a disadvantage, but he was fighting for his family.  
  
Bruce meanwhile was doing everything possible to get underfoot. He grabbed onto the gunman's legs and held on.  
  
"I won't let you hurt my daddy!" he screamed. "I won't!"  
  
Whistles, sirens, and yells could be heard approaching.  
  
"Help us!" Martha's voice had grown hysterical. "Somebody, help us! Please!"   
  
Thomas continued to struggle with the gunman. He'd somehow tackled him to the ground. The gun again went off, narrowly missing Martha.  
  
Both men rolled on the filthy puddles that had accumulated from that afternoon's showers. Bruce wouldn't let go of the leg he'd latched onto.   
  
"Martha! Take Bruce and run!" Thomas yelled.  
  
"Bruce!" Martha cried. "Please! Sweetheart, come to Mommy!" But Bruce had decided that this monster was not going to hurt any of them. On impulse, he attacked with the only weapon he had. He bit down on the gunman's thigh with all the power he could muster.  
  
The robber screamed at the unexpected pain.  
  
"He *bit* me!" he yelled.   
  
By this time, a foot-patrolman arrived on the scene and moved in to subdue the lone gunman.  
  
"*Freeze*! Don't move or I'll shoot! Drop the gun!" A foot suddenly appeared on the gunman's wrist. "I said *drop it*!"  
  
Both men ceased their struggle. Thomas saw the gunman's fingers gingerly release their hold on the weapon. Breathing a sigh of relief, Thomas held his arms out carefully and stood slowly. Martha rushed into his arms. He hugged her desperately to him.  
  
"Bruce? Where is he--?"  
  
They both looked down. Bruce was still biting down hard on the gunman.  
  
"Get 'im offa me! Get 'im off!" The cries had reached a fever pitch now.  
  
"I got 'im, buddy," the patrolman said. "You can let go now." He very gently placed his hands on the boy and began to pull him off. Bruce looked up with wide, frightened blue eyes.  
  
"Are my Mommy and Daddy okay?" he asked in a small voice.  
  
"Bruce!" Martha called, holding out her arms. Bruce ran into his mother's embrace. Thomas quickly bent down and hugged his little boy to him, too. Both mother and father smothered the six year old in kisses.  
  
They were safe.  
  
The next few seconds would be seared in young Bruce's memory for the rest of his life.  
  
Without warning the robber suddenly grabbed the arresting officer's revolver, and before anyone could do anything to stop him, he fatally wounded the patrolman. The distant sounds of sirens could be heard.  
  
Panicking, the gunman threw the gun away and sprinted into the dark shadows.   
  
Stunned Bruce was held in his mother's protective warmth while his father worked rapidly on the wounded man. Somewhere faraway he heard his father's soothing voice.  
  
"Officer--" Thomas read the policeman's nametag. "Officer Gordon, everything's going to be all right. I'm a doctor. Let me help you." Officer Gordon's mouth worked as he struggled to get words out.  
  
"Don't try to talk, officer," Thomas said quietly. "Help's on the way."  
  
"Barbara..." the patrolman whispered. "What will happen to...my little...girl?"  
  
****  
  
"That was a very brave thing you did tonight, son," Thomas said proudly. He gently combed the boy's hair back from his forehead.  
  
"Daddy?" Bruce's face was scrunched up in that way he did when something serious was bothering him. "Why did that man want to hurt us? We never did nothing to him."  
  
"I don't know, Bruce," Thomas said, shaking his head. "Bad things happen in the world. I wish I could be there to protect you from all of it, but sometimes I won't be able to. As a doctor, I've seen the results of what people can do to each other at their worst. But I've also seen people at their best. I've seen the inner strength of those who are suffering and how somehow they manage to go on."  
  
He caressed his son's cheek.   
  
"All we can do, son, is be there to offer a helping hand to those in need."  
  
"Daddy?" Bruce's dark blue eyes gazed solemnly at his father. "When I grow up, can I be a policeman and help others, too?"   
  
Thomas felt his throat catch. A sad smile played at the edge of his mouth. "I thought you wanted to be a doctor," he said.  
  
"I do, Daddy," Bruce said seriously. "Can't I be a doctor *and* a policeman?"  
  
Thomas gave his son an indulgent smile. Last week the boy had wanted to be a fireman, and before that a cowboy. This week, it was a doctor, and now, apparently a police officer.  
  
"Whatever you grow up to be, Bruce," Thomas said. "Mommy and I will be very proud of you."  
  
Bruce smiled happily at his father. Becoming suddenly serious, he started playing with the blanket unsure of how to ask the next question.  
  
"What is it, Bruce?" Thomas asked. "Is something else bothering you?" At Bruce's solemn nod, Thomas urged him to continue. "Go on, son. You know that there isn't anything you can't tell me."  
  
"The policeman said he had a little girl," Bruce's voice conveyed his worry for the unknown little girl. "Will she be okay?"  
  
"I don't know, Bruce," Thomas answered honestly.  
  
"Can't we help her?" Bruce asked. "Her daddy died because--" Large tears began to stream down his cheeks. "--because he helped *us*! Daddy, please? Can we help her?"  
  
Thomas' eyes smiled sadly at his son.  
  
"I'll see what I can do, Bruce. And that's a promise. Now try and get some sleep." Thomas leaned down and kissed his little boy goodnight.  
  
****  
  
Chapter One  
  
Bruce stood behind Alfred as his mother and father led the little girl into the drawing room. She was about four years old, with wide green eyes, and flaming red hair pulled back in twin braids. She was currently dressed in a black velvet jumper over a stiff white blouse with a high collar. Tiny black patent leather shoes completed the picture.  
  
They were returning from her father's funeral.  
  
Bruce's mother caught his eye.  
  
"Bruce?" she said, holding out her hand. "Sweetheart, I'd like you to meet Barbara Gordon. Barbara, this our son, Bruce."  
  
Barbara dropped her eyes to the floor and whispered a hello. Emboldened by her shyness, Bruce stepped forward and gallantly offered her his hand.  
  
"Hi, I'm Bruce," he said. Barbara raised her head. Close up, he could see the red rims around her eyes. He suddenly felt his own eyes tear up. "I'm sorry about your daddy," he said, looking down.  
  
Barbara nodded.  
  
Martha and Thomas exchanged looks above the children's heads. Martha placed a hand on each child's shoulder.  
  
"Bruce, why don't you show Barbara her new room? Maybe show her around the house?"  
  
"Okay!" Bruce readily agreed. "Come on, Barbara! You'll love your room. It has the best view upstairs. And it's right next to mine!" He took the little girl's hand and led her upstairs.  
  
When the children had disappeared, Martha turned to Thomas.   
  
"No known relatives? I can't believe that!" she said, her heart going out to the child. "The poor baby. Thomas, we can't let her be placed in a foster home. Can't *we* adopt her?"  
  
Thomas took his wife's arm and led her to the study. Closing the door, behind him, he spoke.  
  
"We can petition the court for custody, Martha, but there's no guarantee. Barbara may not have living relatives, but several police officers have expressed interest in providing her with a home. Friends of her father."  
  
"Oh, Thomas! What could they provide her?" Martha asked. "Except a life of constant worry? She's lost her father to a madman's bullet. What if she were adopted by another police officer and the same thing happened to her again? What kind of a life is that for a little girl? The uncertainty of never knowing."  
  
Thomas nodded in agreement.  
  
"We'll see what we can do," he said smiling. He took his wife in his arms and held her to him, suffused with happiness that he could still do so.   
  
****  
  
The Family Court Judge banged her gavel.  
  
"This Court is adjourned!" she intoned formally. All participants rose as she exited the courtroom.  
  
"Babs! Isn't that great?" Bruce cried, hugging the little girl to him. "You can come stay with us!"  
  
Barbara smiled at the boisterous boy a little uncertainly. Bruce's eyes smiled happily at her.  
  
"That means that now you're going to be my sister!"  
  
"Your sister?" Barbara asked. She wasn't sure she liked the sound of that.  
  
"Uh-huh!" Bruce said. "And 'cause I'm older, I'll be in charge."  
  
Barbara definitely didn't like the sound of that.  
  
"Oh, no you won't!" Barbara said. "You're not my boss!"  
  
Bruce shrugged. "Sure I am. That's the way things are." Barbara looked about to protest, but Bruce took her hands in both of his. "But now that I'm your older brother, I'm also gonna take care of you. I promise that no one's ever going to hurt you. Okay?"  
  
Barbara liked Bruce holding her hands, so she nodded.  
  
Smiling broadly, Bruce leaned over and pecked her on the cheek. He then whispered in her ear, "I always wanted a little brother, but I guess a little sister is okay."  
  
Barbara smiled shyly. She looked up at Martha and Thomas and her smile broadened. Thomas leaned down and picked her up.  
  
"Martha and I have always wanted a little girl, Barbara," he said. "You're going to make us all very happy." Smiling, Martha reached up and kissed their new daughter on the cheek.  
  
****  
  
"*Oof*!" Sixteen-year-old Barbara whooshed as she landed on her rear end. She looked up at the grinning Bruce with a sour look.   
  
"What's the matter, sis?" Bruce teased. "I thought you were gonna put your money where your mouth is!"  
  
"Funny. Ha-ha!" Barbara said sourly. Her green eyes narrowing, Barbara stood and immediately assumed a defensive crouch. Bruce was officially a 12th degree black belt and she still had to achieve her own black belt status. The siblings had been taking self-defense lessons since shortly after Barbara had come to live with the Waynes.  
  
Their parents had been naturally worried after the violence that had brought them all together and wanted the children able to defend themselves in case something untoward ever happened again.  
  
"Sensei said your evaluation is tomorrow, Babs," Bruce said seriously. "You've gotta be ready. That hit was ABC. You should've seen it coming."  
  
Barbara sighed mentally. Bruce was right. Her mind wasn't on her game. She stood straight and called a time-out. Brother and sister bowed formally and walked over to the water table.  
  
"What is it, sis?" Bruce asked. Barbara took a sip from her cup, her eyes downcast. Finally, she looked up. Bruce was shocked to see the beginning of tears falling.   
  
"Honey, what is it?" Bruce insisted, taking her in his arms. "Come on, you can tell me. That loser Jason Bard hasn't tried anything has he?" he asked. Barbara shook her head, sniffling.  
  
"No, silly. Jase is a perfect gentleman and you know it," she said, chuckling.  
  
Bruce grimaced. Since Barbara's debut earlier that year, she'd been inundated with boys calling at all hours. So far, Bruce had managed to find something to dislike about every boy she'd dated.  
  
"So, then, what is it?" he asked. He gently wiped her cheek. "You know I've never been able to stand it when you cry, sis."  
  
"It's just that I'm gonna miss, you, you dope," she sobbed. Bruce was leaving for Hudson Medical School in another three days. At eighteen, he was the youngest first year medical student admitted by the school. "Everything's going to change. Nothing's going to be the same anymore."  
  
She began openly sobbing, her heartbreak at Bruce's leaving coming to the fore.  
  
"Hey..." Bruce whispered, holding her by the arms. "None of that. You're not some weepy girl who cries at silly movies or anything like that, sis. I'm only going be two hours away by car. I'll probably be home so many times, you won't even notice I'm gone."   
  
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Before you know it, I'll be graduating and completing my residency here with Dad and Doc Leslie." He smiled at her. "Besides with all the boys after you, you won't even have time to miss me."  
  
Barbara smiled and nodded.  
  
"So, want to go another round?" Bruce asked. Grinning broadly Barbara put her cup down and moved to the mat.  
  
****  
  
Bruce looked at the letters in his hand and smiled. A familiar feminine hand told him Barbara had written yet another letter to him. A mental picture of his sister came to him. He suddenly recalled how she'd looked on his last visit home for Christmas.  
  
Barbara was now attending Gotham State University, opting to stay home rather than move upstate for school.  
  
She'd looked stunning in the muted candlelight during dinner and later while the family did their traditional Christmas sing-along. That night, they'd gone outside and wished on a star, something they'd done since they were children. But this time, neither told the other what they'd wished for.  
  
Looking at his sister, how her flaming red hair simply glowed with burnished copper, Bruce had been overcome with sudden feelings that were quite un-brotherly. Almost tongue-tied, he'd been unable to talk.  
  
Now?  
  
Bruce sat on a bench by the Hudson River watching the waters as they meandered towards the Atlantic without actually seeing them. What was the matter with him? Barbara was his *sister*, he told himself. Whatever these treacherous thoughts or feelings that were warring inside him had to be tamped down.   
  
He opened her letter.  
  
//Dear Knucklehead, I wanted to call you, but decided that a letter was just so much more personal. Besides, this way I can talk without you constantly interrupting me about this-and-that new disease that you're studying.//  
  
Bruce smiled at the image. He continued reading.  
  
//So what does your little sister have to say that requires a special letter--written in my best stationary, by the way, so I hope you feel appropriately special? Jason has asked me to marry him. It was so romantic, Bruce! He even went down on one knee, like a true gallant.//  
  
Bruce jumped up from the bench, crumpling the paper in sudden anger. He paced up and down the river walk--ten steps downriver, ten steps back.   
  
"She can't marry that idiot!" Bruce cried. "What's she thinking about?!" He stared out at a group of kayaks cutting through the sun-dappled waters in the distance. Bruce looked down at the crumpled letter and slowly smoothed it out again.  
  
He began reading where he'd left off.   
  
//Bruce, I was overwhelmed. The ring is gorgeous! Everything a girl could ask for. Jase made me feel so special, so loved. He's a gentleman, he's thoughtful, and he always makes me feel as if I'm the only person in the world that matters to him whenever I'm with him.//  
  
Bruce looked away momentarily. What would he do without her? He wondered. Now, too late, just as he was about to lose her, he realized that his feelings for his 'sister' had changed somehow. He loved her, but no longer as a brother. Getting his emotions tightly under control, he started reading again.  
  
//So what's the problem?  
  
Bruce, right then, when Jase was offering me everything I've ever thought I wanted, I realized that the answer was 'No.' I'm extremely fond of Jase, but I'm not in love with him.  
  
For some reason, I kept thinking of you, you knucklehead. As a little girl, I worshiped the ground you walked on. My big brother was everything to me. You were always there for me following my father's death. You held my hand, you talked to me, you played with me, you hugged me when I cried, and smiled with me when I laughed.  
  
Bruce, the rest of what I wish to say can't be said in a letter, but I don't wish to say it over the phone either. Please, can you come home this weekend? What I want to say can only be said face-to-face.  
  
With love,  
Babs//  
  
Bruce re-read the letter several times. Unable to wait a moment longer, he rushed to his room, packed an overnight bag, and headed home.  
  
****  
  
"Marriage?" Thomas looked astounded. "But--" He glanced helplessly at Martha. Unlike her husband, Martha was smiling knowingly.  
  
"I wondered when you two would realize how you felt about each other," she said. This time Thomas's surprised look was directed at his wife.  
  
"You mean you knew?" he asked. "Why didn't you say something?"  
  
"Because *they* didn't know," she said serenely. She held her hands out. "Come here, darlings." Bruce and Barbara each took one of her hands. Tears in her eyes, she spoke.  
  
"Nothing can make me happier," she said. Thomas looked about ready to protest. "Thomas Wayne, don't be such an idiot. Barbara Gordon is the daughter of our hearts, but not our biological daughter. She and Bruce are not biological brother and sister. They've loved each other since they were children. Now, their love has blossomed into that of man and woman. How can we not give them our blessing?"  
  
Thomas stood momentarily nonplussed, staring first at his wife, and then at his children. Seeing their anxious looks, his heart melted. Smiling suddenly, he held his arms out to Barbara. She rushed into his arms with a cry.  
  
"Princess, you'll always be my little girl. You've made Martha and me so happy and proud by allowing us to be your parents. Now, you're going to make me even prouder by allowing me to give you away--to my son." He grinned suddenly.   
  
"The scandal sheets are going to have a field day," Martha added, smiling, hugging Bruce to her, "but I believe that this was meant to be."  
  
****  
  
"Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to present--the bride and groom."  
  
The Wayne Grand Ballroom erupted in applause as Bruce and Barbara made their dramatic entrance at the top of the grand staircase. Holding hands they descended the stairs and made their way to the middle of the dance floor. As they arrived, the music started playing a Strauss Waltz they both loved.  
  
Thomas and Martha toasted one another. As one they put their glasses down and Thomas held his hand out to his bride of almost thirty years. Smiling, she stood and they both joined the bride and groom on the dance floor.  
  
At an appropriate movement in the waltz, the couples exchanged partners, so that Bruce was now dancing with his mother, and Barbara with Thomas.  
  
"Are you happy, Bruce?" Martha asked. Bruce nodded.  
  
"Very much, mother. Barbara is the most beautiful--"  
  
The elegant celebration was suddenly interrupted by several violent explosions, automatic gunfire, sounds of screams, breaking glass, and angry shouts.   
  
"What's happening?"  
  
"I'm bleeding!"  
  
"Everybody down! Get down! Get down!"  
  
"Help me, someone!" The sound of a short machinegun burst instantly quieted the person.  
  
"Mother! Get down!" Bruce shouted pushing Martha to safety under a table. He looked desperately around the ballroom. Barbara and his father? Where were they?  
  
"Dad!" The agonized cry rang through the ensuing silence. That was Barbara! Bruce turned in her direction, and immediately began running towards her.  
  
"Barbara!" he cried.  
  
"Bruce, don't--!" Martha cried.  
  
"Dad--!" Barbara cried in agony. "Please--! Someone help him!"  
  
As Bruce ran, he was suddenly reminded of the danger surrounding them as bullets sprayed immediately before and behind him. He slid to a stop, holding his arms out. At this point, Bruce became aware of the cries all around him of the injured and the frightened.   
  
He looked at Barbara who was hunched over his father. Her white wedding dress was covered in gore. And his father looked unnaturally still.  
  
"Dad?" he whispered.  
  
As he'd stood fast, in shock over the turn of events, Bruce became aware of several heavily armed men taking positions around the perimeter of guests. They were dragging those capable of walking to a single section of the room. A man who was too injured to move, they simply shot and then took whatever valuables were on him.  
  
"What are you doing?" he shouted. "You just murdered that man in cold blood!"  
  
"That's right," a familiar voice said behind him. "And if you don't shut your mouth, you'll be next. I like the idea of two Waynes for the price of one."  
  
Bruce whirled around. Harvey Dent! He'd been the District Attorney until he'd been disfigured when Rupert Thorne threw acid in his face. The corrosive had been so powerful that it had eaten through his muscles and into the nerve endings. The acid had destroyed part of the brain's gray matter, causing permanent brain damage and turning him into a psychopathic killer.  
  
"Harvey! My dad!" Bruce pleaded. "You've got to let me go to him. Please, Harvey, he's hurt! He's your friend!"  
  
"My name's Two-Face!" Dent growled, smacking Bruce across the face. "And I don't have any friends." He whirled around and faced Bruce from a different angle--his non-disfigured side.   
  
"But, you're right. For the sake of what we once were, it's only fitting that the Doc be given a 'second' chance!" He laughed manically at his pun.  
  
"Let's see what the hand of two-faced fate has to say about *this*--" With that, Dent tossed a coin into the air. Bruce didn't understand what was going on. He followed the coin flip up, up, up, then begin its slow downward arc.  
  
Dent caught it easily. Turning around again, he now faced Bruce with his disfigured side out.  
  
"Let's see what's in store for the good doc."  
  
He uncovered the coin. The face was scratched.   
  
"Oops! I guess fate doesn't have a kind eye on your dad, kid. So sorry." He pulled out a handgun, walked up to where Barbara was still holding Thomas, indicated to his men that they pull her away, and fired!  
  
"*No*!!!" Bruce shouted. Barbara screamed hysterically, fighting the men holding her.  
  
Bruce picked up a silver plate that had been dropped on the floor in all the chaos, and not bothering to aim, threw it at Dent. It struck his wrist, causing him to yell at the unexpected pain.   
  
At the same time, he sprinted towards Dent, intending to tackle him. When Bruce was about five feet from him, he went airborne and slammed into the former family friend.  
  
"Get them, boys!" Dent shouted. His minions instantly started shooting first above the heads of the wedding guests and then began lowering their aims, until the bullets were whizzing less than a foot above their heads.  
  
His guests' screams forced Bruce to stop his counter-attack.  
  
"Please, Harvey," he whispered, pleading. "Whatever you want, you can take. Just don't hurt anymore innocent people."  
  
Standing slowly, Dent glared at Bruce momentarily. Then reaching a decision, he called out to his henchmen.   
  
"I want Martha Wayne and the bride brought before me!" The two women were dragged to him. Barbara was covered in Thomas' blood. She'd stopped crying and looked dazed. Martha pulled free and took the younger woman in her arms protectively.   
  
Laughing mockingly, Dent again flipped his coin.  
  
"Heads, the old lady gets it--tails, the young and vivacious bride!"  
  
"You're insane!" Martha gasped.  
  
"Harvey, please--" Bruce pleaded.   
  
The room watched mesmerized as the coin completed its downward spiral.  
  
"Tails! Sorry, Bruce ol' man. I guess you'll never get to 'know' your wife, after all!"  
  
In a frenzy Bruce fought off the goons who were holding him back, throwing them over his head.  
  
Martha meanwhile was fighting like a wildcat, protecting her child. Barbara still looked as if she were in shock, unmoving, and not reacting to the violence exploding around her.  
  
Bruce flew towards Dent, who was raising his weapon and aiming pointblank at Barbara. Martha in a desperate move pushed Barbara out of the way. Bruce slammed into Dent, just as the maniac fired his pistol.  
  
In slow motion, Bruce heard the gun go off.  
  
Martha jerked backwards as the bullet struck her, a plume of red spraying out from the point of impact.  
  
"No-ooo!" Bruce's voice echoed raggedly in the Grand Ballroom, Barbara's animalistic scream overlapping his own. Harvey's evil laughter resonated in a continuous loop.  
  
****  
  
Chapter Two  
  
Bruce stayed by Barbara's bedside for the next three nights, and except for his parents' funeral, he never left her, not even to eat. She was in deep shock, probably over having had both Thomas and Martha killed practically in her arms.  
  
Bruce felt his world spiraling out of control. He still couldn't believe the double loss. His parents had been the guiding light in his life, encouraging his interests, mentoring him throughout his life. He'd gone into medicine because he couldn't think of anything greater than to follow in his father's footsteps.  
  
He'd taken a second degree in engineering because he had a brilliant mind that was always looking at how things 'were' and trying to figure out ways to improve upon it.  
  
He'd devoted himself to his parents' various charities and had even gone them one better--he'd established his own private corporation devoted to research and development. His own medical and engineering background was the driving force behind some new and exciting medical technology that was revolutionizing internal medicine, and his own field, Pediatric Surgery.  
  
As he watched his bride, Bruce wondered if she'd soon be following his parents. He dropped his head suddenly, overcome with grief.  
  
"Babs, please don't leave me. I couldn't bear to lose you, too." He took her hand in his and held it desperately to his cheek.  
  
Alfred watched and mourned from the sidelines. He still couldn't believe the tragedy that had marked what should have been the happiest day of their young lives. He looked down at the tray he was carrying and sighed. Master Bruce hadn't eaten any of the food he'd placed before him these past few days. Soon, he'd have two patients to care for.  
  
Straightening his shoulders, Alfred pushed through the door and spoke.  
  
"Young sir, I must insist that you take a moment to eat." He paused waiting for a reaction that he knew would not come. Ignoring being ignored, Alfred placed the dinner tray down on the bedside table and turned to face his young employer. Compassion flitted across his features as he looked down at the grief-stricken young man.  
  
"Master Bruce," he said, placing his hand on Bruce's shoulder, "please, sir, you *must* eat."  
  
"I'm not hungry, Alfred," Bruce said tiredly.  
  
"Sir, if you don't eat then I shall be forced to call Doctor Thompkins. She has left instructions that if you did not take sustenance today, that she would come here and feed you intravenously."  
  
"Alfred, please..." he sighed. "I just want to be left alone."  
  
"I'm sorry, sir. But I must insist," Alfred said, a note of steel in his voice. Bruce finally nodded in surrender. He'd been minding that voice since he was in diapers. It was too late to change now, even if technically, he was now the employer.  
  
"Okay, Alfred," he said dully, his eyes on Barbara's still form. About to turn away, he stopped. Did he see that, he wondered. He could've sworn that she'd--  
  
There! He *did* see it! Barbara had moved! Excitedly, he called her, still holding onto her hand.  
  
"Babs! Babs, can you hear me? Babs! Please, sweetheart, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand." He waited, holding his breath, watching her face and more signs of life.  
  
That's when he felt it, a definite pressure on his hand. Bringing her hand up to his cheek, he watched as slowly, Barbara opened her eyes and returned to him.  
  
****  
  
The next day, Bruce finally agreed to leave Barbara's bedside. He and Leslie determined that she was going to be all right. She only needed to rest for a few days in order to rebuild her strength. Bruce kissed her lovingly, a promise for the days to come. He looked up Alfred.  
  
"Take good care of our girl, Alfred," he said with a smile. "I'm leaving her in your hands."  
  
"I promise to do my very best, sir," Alfred replied. Bruce bent down and kissed his bride again.  
  
"I love you, Mrs. Wayne," he said. "Now you hurry up and get better. We still have a honeymoon to take." He grinned broadly at Barbara's shy blush. "And don't think for one minute that you're going to get out of it, either."  
  
With that parting shot, he grabbed his briefcase and headed out.  
  
Alfred collected the breakfast remains and arranged them neatly on the tray. Picking it up he started to leave the room. "Miss Barbara, is there anything else that you need at the moment?"  
  
"As a matter fact, Alfred, there is!" To Alfred's astonishment, Barbara threw off her covers and sat up in bed. She fought a momentary bout of vertigo, but as soon as it passed, she gave him a determined look.  
  
Alfred's demeanor showed no outward sign of the sudden fear that gripped him from the inside.  
  
****  
  
"Ladeeeeessss and Gentlemennnnnn!" The Ringmaster's booming voice resounded through the giant tent. "Children of all ages. Haly Circus is proud to present--the *Flying Graysons*!"  
  
"Thomas and Martha would be proud," Leslie said, turning to look at Bruce and Barbara. "The Wayne Foundation Annual Charity Circus is a wonderful tribute to them, and a great way to raise funds for the Children's Hospital."  
  
Bruce turned and gave his parent's best friend an affectionate glance. Still striking at fifty, Dr. Leslie Thompkins, partner, friend, and personal physician to two of Gotham City's rising stars, turned heads wherever she went.  
  
The late Thomas Wayne bequeathed his life's work, which included his lucrative medical practice and position on the Board of Directors of the Wayne Foundation to his son, Dr. Bruce Wayne. In the three years since his father's tragic death, Bruce had made some astute financial moves and laid the groundwork for his corporation, Wayne Enterprises.  
  
His wife, Barbara Gordon-Wayne, attorney-at-law, worked in the Gotham City District Attorney's office and was quickly proving herself a brilliant prosecutor, successfully putting away many of Gotham's local mobsters. Rumors and whispers were flying rampant through the city that Assistant District Attorney Gordon was being helped by a mysterious figure of the night--the Bat!  
  
"Preposterous!" she'd sniffed during a local news conference. Bruce had teased her unmercifully for several days afterwards, asking her if the 'Bat' drank human blood and surprising her by slipping on a pair of plastic fangs one night before bed. The topic was still a source of amusement for the young, power couple.  
  
Already multi-millionaires from the Wayne fortune, the nascent Wayne Enterprises had made them billionaires almost overnight--with Bruce, the company's founder, at its head as its CEO.  
  
"How else can we still go to the circus at our age and not raise eyebrows?" Bruce asked Leslie. He and Barbara smiled at her. "Besides, I've heard of this family of aerialists. Their boy is supposed to be the best in the world."  
  
All three looked up as the boy in question wowed the crowd with a quadruple spin. The father caught him one-handed and easily delivered him to the platform. The boy was instantly replaced on the trapeze by his mother.  
  
As the boy's mother reached out to her waiting husband's hands, the crowd below watched stunned as the ropes suddenly gave way under her added weight. The boy screamed, "*NO*!"  
  
His horrified voice echoed endlessly in the ensuing silence.  
  
****  
  
Bruce looked up from the two broken bodies. He shook his head regretfully. The Flying Graysons were covered where they lay in center ring, while the subdued circus performers awaited the arrival of the police.  
  
Bruce looked around for Barbara and Leslie. He spotted his wife questioning colorfully dressed circus performers and watched as a clown with a bright red nose and a broad, painted-on smile, sadly shook his head.  
  
Scanning the emptied tent, he saw Leslie seated next to a small, huddled form, the Grayson boy. Making his way across the sawdust covered circus ring, Bruce watched silently as the boy collapsed into Leslie's arms, his tiny body shaking with grief.  
  
Hurrying over to them, Bruce's heart went out to the child, remembering his own heartbreak at his own parents' sudden and senseless murder. A pediatric surgeon, Bruce loved children and hated to see them suffering. Reaching Leslie and the boy, Bruce stood momentarily helpless, and then with the practice borne of someone who worked in and around children on a daily basis, he crouched down to the boy's level and gently held his hands out to him.  
  
Leslie watched as Bruce caressed the boy's dark head while speaking softly to him.  
  
Bruce meanwhile didn't know what he was saying, but the words came nevertheless, half-forgotten words from his childhood, words his father would whisper to him at night when he soothed the demons from his nightmares away.  
  
The boy responded to Bruce's quiet voice. He reached his arms out to him, hugging Bruce by the neck. Bruce held him close, rocking him back and forth.  
  
"Son, everything's going to be all right. I promise. Everything's going to be all right."  
  
****  
  
Bruce sat on the side of the bed, silently watching the boy sleep. Dicky. The clown with the painted-on happy face told them that the boy's name was Richard John Grayson, but that everyone called him 'Dicky.'  
  
And he was now alone in world...  
  
Lt. Bullock had showed them the frayed edges of the trapeze ropes.  
  
"Acid," he spat out laconically.  
  
"Someone ensured that tonight would be the Flying Graysons' last night," Barbara said, her voice simmering with anger. Bruce barely heard her; his only thoughts were of the boy.  
  
"I'd like to take him home with us," he said. "The ringmaster, Haly, says that he has no other family. Babs, do you think you could--?"  
  
Barbara came up to him and kissed him gently, loving him for his compassion and desire to help those in need, in pain. Just like when they were children. Bruce was a collector of the hurt and the broken--a baby bird with a broken wing, a large snarling dog with a thorn in his paw, a sick wino who'd fallen asleep behind a dumpster near the Wayne-Thompkins Clinic. He'd insisted on helping them all.  
  
Now, he was insisting on bringing this small boy home. How could she not love her gentle, compassionate husband?  
  
"I have work to do here, Bruce. Why don't you and Leslie take the boy home?" He nodded in response. "Don't wait up, hon. I'll probably be working pretty late."  
  
Again, his thoughts were only of the boy. He accepted and respected his wife's career without rancor. She had to put in late nights several times a week. It just made their nights together that much more special.  
  
He kissed her on the cheek and then hurried to where he'd left Leslie and the boy...  
  
Bruce looked at the bedside clock. It was now after three and Barbara had still not returned home. As he watched the boy's troubled sleep, his thoughts returned to his wife. He was beginning to worry. She'd been putting in some incredibly late-night hours.  
  
Usually, it didn't trouble him, but these past few weeks she'd been staying out later and later almost every night. And a few nights ago when he'd called her office to remind her of a previous engagement, there'd been no answer.  
  
When he questioned her about it later, she'd shrugged it off, saying she hadn't picked up because she was busy, and apologized profusely for forgetting their dinner engagement.  
  
Thinking about her, Bruce almost decided to call her, when the boy began to toss restlessly. Soon, Dicky began to cry out in his sleep, for his Mommy and Daddy. All thoughts of Barbara were instantly quelled as Bruce took the agitated child in his arms and held him rocking him gently.  
  
"Daddy--!" Dicky called. "Daddy--?"  
  
"Here, son," Bruce answered automatically, his throat catching. "I'm here." Softly repeating the words, Bruce suddenly realized how much he wanted them to be true. More than anything, he wanted to start a family, but Babs' career was just beginning to take off.  
  
As he held the restively sleeping child to him, Bruce began to wonder about their life's choices. Was he feeling selfish, he wondered? Was it selfish to want to be able to hold his own child in his arms? Working in Pediatrics, he'd held hundreds of other people's children and had never felt the remorse he was feeling at this moment.  
  
A feeling of deep longing suddenly washed over Bruce for this small boy, now alone in the world.  
  
"I'm here, Dicky," he crooned sadly. "Daddy's here."  
  
****  
  
The grim figure stood outside the darkened, deserted circus grounds, waiting. Haly's trailer was still lit from the inside. A single shadow moved within. A new shadow appeared on the trailer's outer stoop.  
  
As the silent, caped figure watched, the newcomer burst into Haly's trailer and was greeted by an angry shout. The interior lights immediately went out. The mysterious watcher pointed a miniature antenna towards the trailer and instantly picked up the conversation within. With a slight adjustment to the volume, the listener could hear everything being said inside the trailer.  
  
"I *told* you to stay away from here!" Haly shouted.  
  
"And *I* warned you about what would happen if you didn't pay Mr. Zucco's asking price. The Graysons' deaths are on your hands, Haly. Now, who else is gonna die? Are you ready to close down permanently, or you gonna play ball with Zucco?"  
  
Haly's voice sounded anguished when he responded. "Do you think that I'd help you or your fat boss, Cowboy? I don't care what you do to me! I'm calling the police, d'you hear? I'll see you both in the gas chamber before I help you transport your drugs across the country!"  
  
"If that's how you feel about it," Cowboy's sneering voice began, "then, I'll be glad to make an example of you to anyone else who tries to mess with Zucco--"  
  
"Care to try to make an example of me?"  
  
Haly and Cowboy both whirled at the sound of the low, threatening voice. Their eyes popped at the frightening figure before them--a black shadow in the moonlight, caped and cowled, it looked like a--  
  
"The Bat!" Cowboy gasped. He stumbled backwards at the unexpected sight. As the figure advanced, he suddenly realized that it had the fluid movements of a "--a dame! It's nothing but a dame in a bat suit!" he said laughing.  
  
"C'mere, chicky," Cowboy said with a leer. "I'll be happy to show you how I treat dames."  
  
The figure said nothing in return, just waited. Cowboy swaggered towards her until he stood toe to toe. Towering over the costumed woman, he sneered at her. "Baby, let the Cowboy make you smile!" he said, reaching for her.  
  
As soon as his hand touched her shoulder, he was flying head-over-heels out the trailer door. Landing with a bone-jarring thud on the hard, dirt-swept ground below, he had no chance to catch his breath before a powerful kick caught him in the jaw.  
  
He went flying backwards in a haze of red and black.  
  
"Where's Zucco?" she asked in a low growl. Cowboy looked up at the advancing figure. He felt the ground near him, looking for something to throw at her. To his vast relief, his hand closed around his switchblade. Flicking it open, he waited until she was almost on him.  
  
"This is your last chance," she warned, standing above him. "Where's Zucco?"  
  
"I-I don't know," he whimpered, waiting for his chance. "Please, don't hurt me!"  
  
She reached down for him, and easily jerked him to his feet by the lapels. "Last chance, scum!"  
  
"Please--he'll kill me," he begged. "Wh-who *are* you anyway?"  
  
"Call me Batwoman," she growled, reaching back with her fist. Seeing his opening, Cowboy struck with the speed of an attacking cobra, slicing up with the six-inch switchblade. But before he could connect with her exposed ribs and finish her off, Batwoman spun and the knife only grazed her.   
  
Completing her spin, she kicked out with a viciousness borne of an intensely white-hot rage at the killer for hire. He fell over like a rag doll, dazed and barely able to sit up. A thin red line trickled slowly from the side of his mouth.  
  
Like a cold, calculating predator who's already trapped her prey and is merely toying with it before the kill, the Batwoman whirled, leaped and kicked out again, slamming the heel of her boot into Cowboy's left temple.  
  
The Grayson's killer went down without a second whimper. Ignoring the slight throbbing from the cut in her side, she glanced up to where Haly stood, watching openmouthed from the open door of his trailer.  
  
"Call the police," she said curtly, slapping a pair of bat-shaped handcuffs on the killer. "Tell 'em what you know."   
  
"Wait! Who *are* you?" Haly shouted.  
  
"Just call the GCPD. I'm going after Zucco," she said. Her long, sweeping cape billowing behind her, she whirled around suddenly and the next moment disappeared into the late, crisp autumn night.  
  
****  
  
Chapter Three  
  
Dick woke up to strange surroundings. Where was he? He looked around the dark room with wide frightened eyes.  
  
"Mommy?" he whispered. Then he remembered. He tried to close his eyes against the remembered pain, but that only made the vision of his parents' fall all the more vivid in his mind.  
  
The screams of the crowds mingled with that of his mother and father as they plunged to their deaths. His own screams still rang in his own ears no matter how hard he tried to cover them.  
  
"No," he sobbed softly. He rolled over on his stomach and cried into his pillow for a few minutes, his overwhelming loss finally hitting home.   
  
He thought of his mother's sunny laugh, "Let's go, little Robin!" and of his father's strong hands, "Here son!" and knew that he'd never hear their voices or feel their warm touch again. He let the tears run their course, until finally, tears spent he sat up and dried his eyes.   
  
"I'm going to find him," Dick whispered fiercely. "And when I do, I-I'll--" he stopped. Dick didn't know what he'd do if he found the man responsible for his parents' deaths, but he knew that he had to try nonetheless.  
  
As Dick sat on the side of the bed, he remembered the nice man who'd helped him back at the circus. Had he introduced himself? Oh, yeah, Doctor Something-or-other. Dick thought that he might be in the man's own home right now.  
  
The doctor had seemed really nice, not like some of the others they'd met. Gaje doctors always looked at the circus people as if they were dirty. At one particular stop Dick had two bad practice sessions in a row, suffering first a from a split lip and then from a dislocated shoulder the next day.  
  
The doctor to whom Dick was rushed accused his Romany father of 'abusing' Dick and threatened to report the case to the local authorities. Dick wasn't sure what the doctor meant, but his dad had been really angry and had yelled at the doctor.  
  
Dick wasn't sure he could trust non-circus people, even if they seemed nice. A lot of Gaje's seemed nice at first. But a lot of times it was all a lie.   
  
Half-forgotten memories rushed to him, of soothing words and warm arms holding him, telling him everything was going to be all right. Without realizing what he was doing, Dick lay back quietly trying to remember. Daddy, he wondered? No, it felt different somehow. Different but nice. Safe...   
  
Feeling the strong, warm arms around him again, Dick began to once again start slipping back to sleep. As a light doze enveloped him, the roar of the circus crowds returned, the trumpeting elephants, whinnying horses, and strange echoes of the calliope.  
  
Smiling, he saw his mother waving from the opposite platform and his father hanging upside down waiting for him. He felt the cold air whipping against his face and hair as he performed--"One, Two, Three, Four!"--revolutions to the delight of the crowd below who shouted the count as he completed each turn.  
  
He heard the crowd's cries of approval as Daddy firmly clasped his strong hands on his smaller wrists, swinging him up and over to a second trapeze. Dick easily grasped the swing and then continued towards the platform where Mommy proudly waited. He saw his mother's brief wave and smile as she leaped into space above him, exchanging her perch on the platform with the trapeze swing he'd just released.  
  
Where Mommy had been standing just moments before, he now stood, watching his parents as they performed their midair ballet as easily as breathing. The next instant--!  
  
Dick sat up with a jerk, his scream caught in his chest. He couldn't breathe. His chest felt constricted. His stomach felt twisted in a knot. He thought he was going to be sick. Closing his eyes, Dick counted backwards slowly from ten. He remembered the relaxation techniques his father had taught him to help him focus before their practices and performances.  
  
Within moments, Dick was breathing normally, his heart had stopped its painful palpitations, and his stomach had stopped trying to throw up his last meal.   
  
Remembering the conversation he'd overheard outside of Haly's trailer before that night's performance, Dick's chin jutted out into a firm line of determination. He suddenly threw off the bedcovers.  
  
"Mr. Haly called him, 'Cowboy,'" Dick muttered. "And he talked about someone else named, 'Zucco.'" Concentrating on the conversation, Dick tried to recall any other bits of information. Finally, he remembered a location. "Oxie's Bar," he said.   
  
A sudden idea came to him. He looked around the room and found the phone. Because of the family's itinerant circus lifestyle, Dick's parents had taught him long ago how to access emergency numbers in case he ever became separated from the troupe while in a strange town.  
  
Picking up the phone, Dick called the local information operator and quickly got the phone number and street address of the bar. He carefully wrote it down on a notepad that he'd spied on the tiny, child-sized desk.  
  
Glancing at the bedside clock, he saw that it was after three a.m. Looking around the room, Dick felt momentarily sorry that he wouldn't be able to personally thank his benefactor, and was about to leave by the outer balcony doors, when he thought that maybe he should leave at least a small note by way of thanks.  
  
"I wonder if the nice man has a little boy, too?" He thought for a moment about it. "No, then he wouldn't have put me in the room. Well, maybe his little boy already grew up and doesn't need the room anymore."   
  
Dick looked around the room appreciatively and smiled slightly. It was a nice room. It was much bigger than his family's motor home, but all of the furnishings within were child-sized, the bed, the desk, the dresser, and the bureau. Curiously, he checked inside the closet. Empty. But he noted that the closet's clothes bar was located at just the right height for a child's reach.  
  
Dick thought about the 'nice man' who would furnish such a room just for his little boy. (For Dick knew instinctively that this must've been a boy's room from the Robin Hood mural on the wall. Robin Hood was his hero because they shared the same nickname.)  
  
"He must really love little kids," he decided. "Maybe he's not like that other doctor."   
  
Deciding that the 'nice man' was probably really not like the other Gaje doctor with whom his father had run afoul, Dick sat down and quickly wrote out a note.  
  
//Dear Mistr--//   
  
"No, that doesn't look right," he said, scratching it out.   
  
//Dear sir--//  
  
"No, sounds funny. He was really nice. I don't want him to think that I'm--How does Mommy put it?--ungrateful." He tried again.  
  
//Hi. Just want to say thank you for being so nice to me. I really appresheate it.// He looked at 'appresheate.' It didn't look right. He scratched out the entire line and replaced it with 'I really feel grateful for your help.'  
  
Dick looked over the finished note.  
  
//Hi. Just want to say thank you for being so nice to me. I really feel grateful for your help.--Dicky Grayson//  
  
Leaving the note where it could be easily found, he hurried out the French doors and into the balcony. Climbing onto the railing, Dick spied a giant oak far below him, a large branch jutting out at the right angle. Mentally assessing the distance, Dick leaped out into the night.  
  
****  
  
Bruce sat up with a jerk. He took a moment to assess his surroundings. He'd fallen asleep at his desk in the study. In a single motion, he blearily rubbed his eyes and then ran his hands through his hair. Looking up at the antique grandfather's clock that stood solemn guard in the study for as long as Bruce could remember, he saw that the hands had advanced almost three quarters of an hour.  
  
It was almost four a.m. Babs still hadn't come home.  
  
He stumbled towards the adjacent half-bath for a glass of water. He filled a paper cup, swallowing the contents in a single gulp. He crumpled the empty cup and threw it forcefully into a small trashcan.   
  
"Where *is* she?" he muttered. He glanced at the phone on his desk and made a move towards it, but stopped. Suddenly Bruce didn't want to know if Barbara might not be in her office. He didn't want to hear the sound of the continuous ring before her voicemail picked up. He didn't want to hear the cool tones, of her business voice informing the caller of her business hours, and to "Please leave a short message, your name and a phone number where you can be reached."  
  
More specifically, Bruce didn't want to hear the sound of his wife's voice 'telling' him that she'd found someone else. That she no longer loved him. That he was no longer her hero of long ago, the boy she'd fallen in love with when she was four and he was six.  
  
Eyes closed, he murmured, "Babs, what's happened to us?"   
  
Turning sadly away, he suddenly thought of Dick. Inexplicably his heart leaped as a mental picture of the small, lonely boy appeared to him. Dick needed him, Bruce realized.  
  
"Or, at least, I need him," he amended softly. Hurrying upstairs he stopped by his old room to check on the boy before turning in.  
  
The empty bed and opened balcony doors stopped him in his tracks. Swearing softly under his breath, Bruce flipped the lights on. He quickly spotted the note that Dick had left him. He felt an icy fear grip his heart.  
  
Reading the note for the third time, he paused.  
  
"Waitaminute," he muttered. "There's something odd here." Holding the note under the desk lamp, Bruce studied it closely. It looked like the indentations of some other writing was superimposed over Dick's note--possibly numbers.  
  
Bruce took out a pencil, and feeling like he was acting out scene two in a bad B-movie, he lightly ran the pencil lead back and forth across Dick's writing. The faint outlines of a street address suddenly appeared before him: Oxy's Bar 46578 Dixon Drive 555-2358.  
  
"Oxy's Bar?" Bruce wondered. "Probably meant Oxie's Bar on Dixon and 48th." Bruce knew of the place. That was a really bad part of town--several shootings and knifings had occurred there in the past year. And he'd treated the gunshot and knife wounds to prove it.   
  
"If Dicky's gone there--" Bruce began. He had to find the boy and stop him. "He couldn't have gotten far on foot," Bruce muttered as he raced through the house to the front door. Sprinting towards the detached garage, Bruce urgently punched in the security code and waited impatiently for the huge doors to open.  
  
Ducking underneath the door as soon as it cleared about four feet, Bruce ran to the Porsche. Not bothering to open the driver's side door, he jumped in, put the key in the ignition, fired up the engine and roared out burning rubber, barely clearing the still rising doors.  
  
****   
  
Deep under the vast Wayne estate lie a series of ancient underground caverns that carved in the distant past by the churning waters of the cold Atlantic as it slowly receded from the Eastern seaboard and continental shelf towards its present location.  
  
As children, Barbara and Bruce discovered the endless network of caverns quite by accident--Bruce literally fell into it one day. To their excitement, the Waynes allowed the children to turn it into a playroom of sorts. Here, the children's imagination transported them to other places in their endless games of make-believe.  
  
When Bruce finished reading _Tom Sawyer_, he recruited Barbara into playing an elaborate game of hide-and-seek with Bruce as Tom and Barbara, Becky Thatcher. For weeks on end, they'd hidden and continuously run from the evil clutches of 'Injun Joe.' To Barbara's annoyance, Bruce was the hero in all of their mini-playlets, rescuing the damsel from each of Bruce's creative 'distresses.'  
  
"Why do *I* always have to be captured and tied up?" Barbara protested. Her angry eyes flashed green at her older brother in protest. Her cheeks were a match for the flame-red of her head.  
  
"I already told you. 'Cause I'm the oldest, silly," Bruce said shrugging. "And 'cause you're a girl. The girl is *always* rescued by the hero."  
  
Barbara's face scrunched in frustrated anger.  
  
"I can do anything *you* can do, Bruce Wayne! And don't think I can't!" With that, Barbara grabbed Bruce by the wrist and elbow and threw him head over heels. Bruce landed with a ~whoomf!~ on his backside.  
  
"Hey! What was *that* for?" Bruce yelled, jumping to his feet in a smooth motion. Barbara didn't say anything, she just crouched into a defensive stance, the way their sensei had taught them. Her eyes narrowed. She tensed, waiting for Bruce's counterattack. He was better than she, much as she hated to admit it. But it was the truth. If she were to beat him, she had to take advantage of any opening he might give her.  
  
But the counterattack never came. Instead, Bruce visibly calmed down and smiling held out his hand in a gesture of peace.   
  
"You're right, sis," he said. "I guess I have been hogging all the glory. Tell you what, why don't we just call it even for now, huh? I promised Dad that I'd meet him at the clinic later today, so I'd better go on up and change." He turned to go, but before he left he turned back once more. "Would you like to go to a movie with me Saturday afternoon? Mom said that it's okay for Alfred to take us to the new Star Wars movie."  
  
Barbara nodded mutely.  
  
"Great! Look I'd better go. I'll see you tonight for dinner, okay?" He gave Barbara a friendly wave and ran upstairs.  
  
Barbara stood wordlessly, watching as Bruce disappeared up the long, crude stairs. She shook her head. She wasn't sure if should be upset with Bruce for not responding to her anger in kind, or with herself for always losing her temper.  
  
To her knowledge, Bruce had never struck another person in anger. He never got in fights in school, never lost his temper with her (well, almost never), and never had a mean or unkind word to say about anyone else. In other words, he was just like Mom and Dad.  
  
The Waynes were possibly the kindest, most loving people that Barbara knew--excluding Alfred and Doc Leslie. They loved her unconditionally and doted on her every whim. Usually, they took her volatile mood swings in stride--almost always managing to cajole a smile out of her eventually.  
  
She barely remembered her real Dad, and what she recalled of him were vague memories of warm hugs and soft kisses. If she tried real hard, she could see him as he smiled at her from the kitchen door on his way to work. She could see a blue uniform shirt and brightly shining badge over his pocket. She remembered the soft crick and smell of his leather holster and the endless rows of silver bullets jammed into their respective holders.  
  
Most of all, Barbara could remember the gun. In her dreams, the gun loomed large. Supposedly for protection, it had actually been the source of his death. She'd overheard the Waynes' talking softly amongst themselves one night and she found out just how her beloved Daddy had been killed.  
  
With his own gun.  
  
Since that night, she'd hated the thought of guns. She hated to watch the news and see and hear about the violence and heartbreak that guns brought to other little girls and boys. She wanted to do something about it.   
  
In her dreams she always found the faceless man who'd pulled the trigger and killed her daddy. Her dreams began to haunt her in the daytime, and before she realized it, she was already planning her life's work. She knew that she couldn't become a police officer like her daddy. She knew that she couldn't work with guns.  
  
But Barbara knew that she had to 'do something.' Before she knew it, she found the answer. Ironically, it came in the form of Harvey Dent, the District Attorney for Gotham County, and a good friend of Martha and Thomas Wayne...   
  
"What are you doing?" Barbara looked up, quickly placing her finger to her lips in a shushing manner. Bruce sat next to her on the grand staircase overlooking the formal dining room. Their parents were holding a dinner party in honor of their friend, Dent, who'd just been re-elected as DA.  
  
Dad was speaking: "But, Harvey, so many of them come from broken homes. They dropped out of school, have no skills to speak of. I know that most convicted criminals who are currently behind bars test remedially in the basics of reading and math. We should be doing more to rehabilitate them, so that when and if they *do* return to society, they won't repeat the same mistakes."  
  
Dent smiled at his friend.   
  
"Thomas, I know that you and Leslie are for helping others through compassion. You already provide shelters for the homeless, free medical care, and countless other services." Dent paused for moment, picking his words carefully.   
  
"And what you're doing is necessary. Believe me--your combined efforts to help the less fortunate of Gotham is much appreciated and it's accomplishing so much. However, Thomas, as a society we also need to have a practical approach to separating those who would prey on the innocent. A place to send them when they deliberately set out to hurt others."  
  
Barbara caught the expressions of the other dinner guests. They were all listening raptly to Dent's words. He continued.  
  
"What we *need* is a systemic plan to crack down on the criminals who would terrorize the citizens of Gotham and the surrounding county. I've already spoken to the mayor and city council with my proposal for municipal ordinances that impose mandatory sentences for gun-related crimes committed within the city limits of Gotham."  
  
"Here, here!" someone called.  
  
"About time!" another said.  
  
"But Harvey--!" Thomas began. Before the children could hear their father's response, they were 'busted' by Alfred and sent to their respective rooms...  
  
Since that time, Barbara's growing desire to help Dent 'clean up' Gotham City had settled into a certainty of what she would do when she grew up. Now, feeling somewhat low since Bruce had left her, she turned around and started walking aimlessly through the labyrinthine network of caves that she and her brother had already explored.  
  
Taking a flashlight and ball of twine with her, Barbara set off through the myriad caves, exploring each new shadow and hidden crevice. Two hours later, Barbara discovered a small opening behind a stalagmite that she'd never bothered to inspect before. To her surprise, the opening was just wide enough for a child her size.  
  
Shining her light beam through it, she saw that it opened into a rather long and dark tunnel. Taking a chance, Barbara tied one end of her twine securely to the stalagmite at the tunnel's entrance and then got down on her hands and knees and began to crawl. After a few minutes, the tunnel widened sufficiently for her to stand. It continued in the same direction, sometimes taking a left or right turn. At one point, the tunnel branched off in three different directions.   
  
"Eeney-meeney-miney-mo," she sing-songed, eventually selecting the left branch. Thankfully, she still had her twine to help her blaze a trail. On impulse, she found a rock and scratched an arrow pointing the way out.  
  
"Just in case," she muttered. A few minutes later, she was glad she did because her twine finally played out. Feeling around for another rock, Barbara again scratched out an arrow on the tunnel wall and continued on her lonely trek.  
  
Just when it seemed that the tunnel would never end, it finally did.   
  
When Barbara stepped out of the tunnel, she instantly had a sense of *space*--a vast, open space, larger than anything else she and Bruce had discovered in their explorations. Flashing her beam upwardly towards the cave ceiling, she suddenly startled a large colony of bats. The bats instantly swooped and screeched in a scene right out of a horror movie.  
  
Barbara automatically ducked and covered her head. To her relief, the bats didn't attack her, but rather settled soon after their initial disturbance. Excited at finding a colony of bats, Barbara surmised that there had to be an exit to the outside world located somewhere in order for them to be able to forage for food.  
  
Wanting to continue her adventure, Barbara caught a look at the glowing face of her wristwatch. 5:00! Alfred would skin her alive. Well, he'd *look* at her with his eyebrow raised in disapproval, which passed for the same thing in the Wayne household.   
  
Sighing disappointedly, Barbara turned around to head back to the playroom. Before she did, however, she looked back at the newly discovered 'Batcave.'  
  
"But I'll come back," she promised the bats and the cavern. "Don't you worry. I'll come back."  
  
For some reason Barbara couldn't quite pinpoint, she didn't show her discovery to Bruce. Not that night after dinner, nor any day thereafter. The 'Batcave' was hers and hers alone.   
  
And even though the children played together in the adjacent caverns, Bruce never once ventured deeply enough into the seemingly never-ending tunnels, and therefore, he never found 'her' cave.   
  
As the children grew, their playroom became their training room, where they practiced their martial arts and gymnastics, sometimes for hours on end. And to Barbara's secret satisfaction, 'her' cave always beckoned like a mischievous friend who called and tempted her to come out and play when she should be doing her homework...  
  
****  
  
The bats chattered in a high-pitched greeting, their wings fluttering as they suddenly flew around the cave's ceiling, announcing their annoyance at being disturbed yet again. Seeing their dark visitor, however, they soon returned to their ceiling perch, settling down once again, sensing a kindred spirit.   
  
Anywhere else the grim figure could inspire fear and terror in the hearts of those who caught the barest glimpse of her cowled face and flowing cape. But here, the Batwoman was at home.   
  
Here, she was just another denizen of the night, who emerged only when the urge to hunt came upon her and she was forced to satiate her almost obsessed need to bring to justice to those who would prey on the innocent.  
  
Purposely moving across the narrow catwalks that crisscrossed the 'Batcave,' Batwoman took out a miniature remote control. She pressed a button as she walked along the elevated catwalk and lights automatically began to flick on, one-by-one preceding her until she reached the cave's operations center.  
  
Reaching the giant control center, the Batwoman pulled back her cowl, revealing the lovely features and flaming red hair of Barbara Gordon.   
  
Recalling the words of Harvey Dent from long ago, Barbara sadly reflected on the irony that the very man who'd inspired her to seek a career in law, had also been the catalyst who'd jumpstarted her 'moonlighting job'--that of the Batwoman!  
  
Grimly setting her jaw, Barbara set to work.  
  
"Okay, Zucco, you sewer rat," she growled. "Where are you?"  
  
****  
  
Chapter Four  
  
Dick jumped off the giant eighteen-wheeler and waved at the friendly driver.  
  
"Thank you, sir," he called. The driver gave him a smile and a wave, and then a look of uncertainty.  
  
"Son, are you sure that this is where you want to be dropped? It doesn't seem like a place I should leave a little kid like you alone."  
  
"I'll be okay, sir," Dick said with a reassurance he didn't feel. "My uncle lives just around the corner. He's expecting me."  
  
The driver gave the boy a doubtful look, but at Dick's confident smile, he finally shrugged and started his truck. "Good luck, son!" he called as he started pulling away.  
  
Dick stood on the broken sidewalk for a long moment, watching the large truck as it disappeared around the corner. He checked the street name--46th Street. Dixon Drive should be a few blocks away. He searched for an address on the nearest building and immediately started heading east.   
  
He soon crossed 47th, and one block farther on he found 48th Street. Dick started heading north on 48th. According to the truck driver, Dixon Drive intersected 48th Street about a half-mile further down. Walking and running, Dick made his way quickly through the darkened Gotham City streets.  
  
He tried not to think about the secrets hiding behind every shadowed doorway, or the rundown, boarded storefronts that he was passing. A sudden movement on his right, as he passed by a smelly, scary alleyway made him jump. Dick immediately sprinted at breakneck speed. He didn't dare to stop until he'd put a few more blocks between him and the alley. Taking a moment, he looked back over his shoulder.   
  
The street behind him was empty. A lone streetlamp provided the only illumination for several blocks, casting eerie shadows, making the night seem even blacker. Dick suddenly began to regret his decision to come out here, not just alone but at night.   
  
About to continue on his trek, Dick came across a particularly seedy intersection, a burnt-out, gutted building greeting him on the adjacent corner. Glancing up at the street sign, he was alternately relieved and nervous that he'd finally found Dixon Drive.  
  
Looking around, he spotted the place he'd been looking for: Number 46578 Dixon Drive, Oxie's Bar.  
  
****  
  
Bruce took the sharp turn on two wheels. He expertly brought the Porsche back under control with minimum effort.  
  
"You'll kill yourself, you idiot," he muttered. "A lot of good you'll do the kid then." He stepped harder on the gas. "I can't believe I didn't see him on any of the county roads. Must've hitched a ride. What kind of irresponsible person gives a kid a *ride*?"  
  
He felt the same cold hand that had earlier squeezed his heart. There were many persons out there who offered kids rides from which the innocently trusting children never returned.  
  
Bruce passed the city limits and ignoring the posted speed signs instead floored the accelerator. Knowing that the city turned the streetlights to blinking yellow after three a.m., he approached each intersection with little caution, knowing that he had the right of way.  
  
At one point, another car suddenly crossed in front of him. Jerking the wheel to the right to avoid an accident, Bruce went into a violent 360-degree spin. Bringing the Porsche under control again, Bruce continued on his journey without stopping. Since there hadn't been an accident, he knew that the other driver would be all right, if a little shaken.  
  
As he sped away, he thought he heard a few well-chosen expletive being spewed in his wake from the other driver.  
  
"Idiot," Bruce muttered. "Must've been drinking or something. I obviously had the right-of-way."  
  
Passing 45th Street, Bruce suddenly heard the sounds of a siren.  
  
"Damn!" He couldn't afford to be stopped now. He was almost there. Coming to the next intersection--46th Street--Bruce made a hard, 90 degree left turn. Hearing the sirens somewhere behind him, he quickly searched for and spotted a hidden alleyway. Turning sharply into it, he slammed on the brakes, turned off the ignition and waited.  
  
Within moments, a police squad car, sirens blaring and lights blinking, zoomed by. Bruce waited a few additional minutes, listening for the sirens as they died out in the far distance. Sure that the coast was clear, he backed out of the alley, and continued towards his destination.  
  
Less than ten minutes later, Bruce found it--Oxie's Bar. Parking a half block away, Bruce jumped out and started towards Oxie's. Taking a cursory look around the seedy, run-down district and then down at his beloved Porsche, he shrugged fatalistically.  
  
"It'll probably be gone in less than an hour!'" He sighed and shrugging crossed the street and hurried back towards Oxie's. "Might as well put a sign on it saying, 'Hey look! Free car!'"  
  
But truth be told, it didn't really matter. The car could be easily replaced, but one small, frightened boy couldn't. Thinking of Dick's solemn blue eyes galvanized Bruce into an even faster pace.  
  
****  
  
Dick studied the building's facade with a critical eye, spotting handholds here and there. He'd tried each of the outer doors and found them locked. If he were to gain access to the inside, he'd have to find some other way in. Walking around the building one more time, he noted that there was no fire escape and no drainpipe from the roof's gutter to the ground, just some poorly maintained outside masonry with cracks that could serve as hand and toeholds interspersed here and there.   
  
"Brother, this place is falling apart," he muttered. "Good thing it's so filthy. The dirt is probably holding it up."  
  
Straightening his shoulders, Dick stood on his tiptoes and stretched as far as he could. His fingertips couldn't reach the first handhold above him. Taking a step back, Dick mentally measured off the necessary paces, speed, and angle of flight he'd need in order to reach it. Narrowing his eyes, he took five steps back, and then, breathing deeply in order to focus, he took off.  
  
Reaching an invisible line in the concrete, Dick jumped up and reached for the crack in the masonry. Catching his fingertips inside the crack, Dick now hung six feet above the ground.   
  
Gasping for air, he looked down. "Now what, Dicky?" he asked. "Keep going, I guess."  
  
Looking up, Dick saw the next handhold beckoning.   
  
"I can do this," he declared. Concentrating, Dick used his biceps to raise himself. At the last possible instant, he released one hand and reached overhand for another handhold just another couple of feet above him.  
  
Once he reached this second handhold, Dick brought his second hand up and again pulled himself up. Before long, he was using the abandoned handholds as toeholds, thus resting his arms sufficiently to keep on climbing.  
  
A few minutes later, Dick came up to a window on the second story. Crouching on the outer ledge, he rested for a few moments.   
  
"That wasn't so bad," he gasped. Testing the window, he tried to open it. Locked. He sighed.   
  
"Great. And me without my glasscutter," he said ironically. "Okay, Dicky, we don't want to break the window and make a lot noise. Not yet, anyway." He looked over to his right. "So, why don't I try the window over there?" Shrugging, Dick made his way across the building's facade to a second window ledge. He found that window locked too.  
  
"Of course it's locked. If I was a crook and lived in this neighborhood, I'd lock my windows, too!"  
  
Grimacing, Dick climbed up to the third floor and tried another window. Locked. Beginning to feel frustrated, he again crossed over the crumbling brick face of the building and climbed onto another window ledge. Not really expecting success, Dick was so startled when the window opened on the first try that he fell over backwards.  
  
"Hey!" he yelled, unable to help himself.   
  
Recovering instantly, he managed to grab the window ledge with his hand, and hung suspended from the third story for a precarious moment.   
  
"Shut up, Dicky!" he hissed. "You trying to get yourself caught? Or maybe killed?"  
  
Swallowing nervously, his blood rushing in his ears, Dick closed his eyes for a second and got his breathing under control.  
  
"On *three*, Dicky," he muttered. "One--two--*three*!" When he uttered 'three,' Dick swung his legs up and over, expertly twisting his body in through the open window. Landing noiselessly inside, Dick held onto the window ledge for a second longer than necessary, giving silent thanks.   
  
Sufficiently recovered, Dick straightened and turned. As he did, he walked right into a pair of strong, rough arms.  
  
"Well, well, well!" a gruff, frightening voice said, amused. "Lookit what we got here. Kid, you just picked the wrong joint to break into. Mr. Zucco don't like unannounced visitors."  
  
****  
  
Bruce hugged the shadows around the rundown building. He remembered the countless games of make-believe he and Barbara had played as children.   
  
"Wonder what James Bond would do just about now?" he mused. "Doors locked. No windows on the bottom floor except for the large storefront plate glass window." He paused, weighing his options.   
  
"This is the part where Bond would probably drive his Austin-Healy through the front window in a dramatic entrance," he added. "Well, not being the suicidal type, I guess I'll have to come up with another idea."   
  
Looking up, Bruce spotted an open third floor window. "All it's missing is the neon sign announcing 'Trap!'" He shook his head ironically. "Well, luck is either with me, or there's spider on the other side saying, 'Enter.'"   
  
Shrugging, Bruce took stock of the situation and removed his jacket. "Let's see what kind of shape I'm in," he muttered.  
  
A few minutes, sore muscles, cut hands, torn pants, sweaty forehead, and filthy shirt later, Bruce finally climbed in the open window. Collapsing on the floor immediately inside, he took a few minutes (okay several minutes) to catch his breath and still his rapidly beating heart.  
  
"Don't ever do that again, Bruce," he rasped harshly. "If you do, leave me behind." Grinning ruefully, he climbed painfully to his feet. "Need a little more time in the gym, Bruce. Tomorrow's gonna hurt like hell. Serves you right."  
  
He stopped at a closed door, listened for a few seconds, and then opened it carefully. A hallway.   
  
A filthy, smelly hallway, he amended.   
  
"If this place is open for business," Bruce said grimacing, "it's probably the primary source of every nasty communicable disease in Gotham. First thing I do is report it to the City Health Department."  
  
Hearing voices wafting up from a level below, Bruce walked noiselessly towards an open mezzanine area. Staying to the shadows, he crawled towards the rickety railing overlooking an open bar area and dance floor. Looking up, he saw what he assumed was a skylight. He couldn't tell, because apparently someone had painted over it, thus neutralizing its intended function--that of letting in sunlight.  
  
"Wonder if someone's trying to hide something," he murmured. A child's frightened scream caught his attention.  
  
"Let me *go*!"  
  
Dick! Bruce looked around desperately for the source of the voice. Where *was* he? Finally, Bruce saw the small boy being hauled in by the scruff of the neck.  
  
****  
  
"Whatchu got there, Jack?"  
  
"Dunno, Mr. Zucco," Jack said. "Found him sneaking in through one of the third story windows."  
  
"Third story window?" Zucco asked surprised. "Who *are* you kid? Trying to rob me?"  
  
"You killed my parents!" Dick yelled.  
  
"What? Whaddaya talking about? I never killed nobody!"  
  
"Yes you did! I heard him tell Mr. Haly that you'd ordered him to put the acid on the trapeze ropes. Daddy always checked our equipment before a performance. Cowboy must've done it *after* Daddy checked 'em."  
  
"'Daddy,' huh?" Zucco growled. "You must be the Grayson brat, then." He turned to Jack. "That *idiot*, Cowboy. I wonder how many others he blabbed my name to?"  
  
"Dunno, boss," Jack said. "But at least you don't have to worry about Cowboy singing to the feds."   
  
"Yeah, but that doesn't help me with *this* problem!" Zucco snapped. "If Cowboy told Haly, and the kid overheard, then maybe someone else did, too."  
  
"*No*!" Dick yelled. "No one else was there. Just *me*! I'm the only one who overheard him say that you ordered it. Honest!"  
  
"I believe you, kid," Zucco said with a sneer. "And it's just too bad for you and for that fool, Haly." He snapped his fingers. "Jack, take care of 'em. I don't want nothing left tying me to the Graysons' murder."  
  
"I'm on it, boss," Jack said confidently.   
  
"Too bad we had to ice Cowboy," Zucco said regretfully. "He was a good man with the acid."  
  
"Yeah, but acid's tricky, Mr. Zucco. I mean lookit what happened when Cowboy tried to take out Dent. Instead of killing Dent, the acid turned him into a monster. Dent may no longer be trying to close you down, but--"  
  
"--But now that he's become Two-face, he's trying to take over the rackets," Zucco admitted. "If the *Bat*--or whatever it is--hadn't caught him, he'd've moved in on our territory."  
  
"Come on, Boss! You don't believe in the Bat, do you?" Jack said with a grin. "It's just fool talk!"  
  
"But you said that Cowboy--"   
  
"Yeah, yeah. Cowboy claimed he was taken down by the Bat--or Batwoman. But I tell you it ain't nothing but a fairytale. He was just trying to cover up 'cause we knew he was gonna rat to the feds." Jack shrugged nonchalantly. "If I'd'a known you was so interested in the Bat I woulda asked Cowboy more questions before I put a bullet through his heart."  
  
"Never mind that!" Zucco yelled. "You just better sure nobody saw you plug 'im! I don't need no cops sniffing 'round here."  
  
Jack grinned, showing a row of yellowed teeth. "Don't worry, boss. Like I told you, I got friends in city jail. The guards never saw nor heard nothing!" He smiled in fond remembrance. "Now, unlike acid, a 38 slug in just the right place--"   
  
Dick gasped as Jack whipped out a vile-looking handgun and held it to his head. "Let me *go*!" Dick cried out, struggling in earnest. Jack viciously hit the child across the face, instantly drawing blood.   
  
A bright red stream spurted out of the boy's nose and mouth. Dick's knees buckled out from under him. He covered his face with both hands, feeling slightly sick from the salty taste in his mouth.  
  
Standing over Dick, Jack continued, "As I was saying, a 38 slug in just the right place has a way of causing permanent damage--!"   
  
He calmly screwed in a silencer to the gun barrel as he spoke, and then coolly held it to Dick's temple. A strange light in his eyes, Jack pulled the hammer back.  
  
"--Permanent *brain* damage!" A peculiar sound escaped his lips--almost a high giggle. He licked his lips in anticipation. "And, Boss, I promise you that there's almost no chance that he'll ever sit up afterwards."  
  
Eyes smiling malevolently, his yellow teeth gleaming in the dim light, Jack reached for the cowering boy.   
  
****  
  
As the man called Jack reached for Dick, Bruce grabbed the nearest thing close at hand and threw!   
  
"Let him go!" Bruce's deep baritone commanded as he ran into the room. He saw that the object he'd pitched with the same force and accuracy from his college baseball days painfully struck Jack on his wrist, causing him to reflexively lower his gun.   
  
The tinkling sound of glass breaking beyond Jack told Bruce that he'd just pitched his famous game-winning fastball with a whisky shot glass.  
  
"Hey!" Jack yelled, swinging his gun towards Bruce. Bruce immediately dove for cover underneath a small cocktail table, crashing into a couple of shaky barstools.   
  
"I *hate* you!" Dicky yelled.   
  
Bruce looked up in time to see the small boy expertly sweeping Jack's legs out from under him, sending him flying through the air. As the killer hit the floor, Dick kicked him across the jaw and then leaped and spun in midair, as if gathering power.   
  
Bruce watched in amazement as the boy followed through by slamming a small sneakered-foot to the gunman's left eye and a sharp jab to the wrist, sending Jack's weapon flying from his hand. Bruce leaped to his feet and started running at a crouch towards Dick as the gun went sliding across the floor to the other side of the bar.  
  
"The kid," Jack gasped. "I'm getting clobbered by a little kid!"   
  
Bruce winced involuntarily as he saw Dick again viciously kick Jack in the ribs. "Dicky! No, son! That's enough!" Bruce yelled.   
  
The next instant, Bruce almost regretted the words as Jack suddenly reached out blindly, trying to grab Dick's foot.   
  
"Dicky, look out!" Bruce cried in warning. But it was unnecessary. Again, Bruce was astounded by the boy's moves. Instead of Jack being able to grab the boy, Dick avoided his grasping hands by leaping high above him and somersaulting just beyond his much larger opponent's reach.  
  
Dick landed behind Jack and instantly set upon the already injured man, uselessly pummeling him with his small fists.  
  
"That's for Mommy and Daddy!" Dick cried out, his voice breaking in anguish. "I hate you! I *hate* you!"  
  
Before Dick could rear back and land another sharp kick on Jack's anatomy, the same soothing voice he'd heard soon after his parents' tragic fall spoke to him.   
  
"No, Dicky," Bruce said gently. "You don't hate anyone, son."   
  
Bruce was momentarily taken aback by the expression of openly naked hatred that Dick shot at Jack. Bruce glanced towards Jack and saw him struggling to keep his eyes open, to push himself up to sitting position. He was barely able to lift his head and look up unseeingly at him.   
  
Bruce quickly glanced back at Dick. What he saw gave Bruce a fleeting sense of hope that perhaps the boy could still be reached. For through the hatred, Bruce saw that Dick looked ill from his handiwork.   
  
The boy's anguished eyes stared at Jack, his pain evident at the hurt he'd caused. The next moment, jaw clamped and fists clenched, Dick whirled and Bruce found himself at the receiving end of a pounding.   
  
"You don't *know*! You *can't* know!" Dick sobbed. "They killed Mommy and Daddy! I want *them* to die, too!"  
  
Jack looked up blearily from where he lay on the floor, apparently forgotten. A large man who looked like some kind of uptown John knelt a few feet away holding the boy in his arms. Crying brokenheartedly, the boy was busily beating the John on the chest with all his might. Even dazed, Jack could see that the boy's fists made no impression on the big guy.  
  
Hugging Dick closely to him, Bruce spoke to him in soft, soothing tones. "No, son. You don't want anyone to die. Let me take you home, Dicky." He stood up, lifting the boy into his arms, hugging him closely. "Come on. Let's go home."  
  
"Now isn't that touching," Zucco broke in derisively. "But I'm afraid that if there's going to be any dying in *my* joint--it ain't gonna be *me*!"  
  
Bruce stood frozen in place, Dick in his arms. Seeing Zucco's deadly weapon aimed directly at them, he quickly turned his body to shield Dick.   
  
Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce saw Jack turn his head painfully towards Zucco. Bruce clinically noted that Dick had done a job and a half on the vicious killer. Jack's left eye was almost swollen shut, and he had to blink to clear his right one. Bruce felt a chill shoot up his spine as a grin slowly formed on Jack's lips. The killer swallowed a few times and licked his lips, obviously trying to form words.  
  
"Way to go, boss," Jack whispered, his voice raspy, barely audible. "That's the ticket."  
  
"Sorry, Jack," Zucco said, not sounding sorry at all. "But I don't think I want any witnesses for this one."  
  
Bruce stared at Zucco for a long moment and then quickly glanced over at Jack for his reaction to this new threat. He saw Jack's swollen eyes widen as the meaning of his boss's words sank in.   
  
"But, boss--!" he rasped.  
  
At that moment, they were all startled by the sounds of glass shattering overhead. Looking up, they caught a fleeting glimpse of a dark, frightening figure swooping down dramatically towards them.  
  
****  
  
Chapter Five  
  
Four pairs of eyes stared up in shock...   
  
Bruce reacted first. Quickly scanning the room for a safe hiding place for Dick, he shoved the boy underneath the lowest storage bin behind the bar.  
  
"Stay there!" he hissed, shutting the cabinet door on the protesting boy's face...  
  
****  
  
"Sweet Mother of--!" Zucco swore. "It's the *Bat*!" He brought his pistol up and took a shaky aim at the descending dark form. Taking an involuntary step backwards, he started firing wildly, missing the mark...  
  
****  
  
"The Bat?" Jack whispered. "I gotta get outta here!" He slowly dragged himself to his knees and started crawling, keeping to the gloom cast by the myriad tables and chairs...  
  
****  
  
"Who does he think *he* is?" Dick fumed. He pushed the cabinet door open, listened briefly for any sounds of movement from the other side, and crept out on all fours...  
  
****  
  
Landing with a graceful sweep of her cape, Batwoman found herself in a dangerous rain of hot lead. She instantly leaped and somersaulted in midair, dodging the erratic fire that Zucco was letting fly in her direction. She crashed into row of tables causing several to collapse from the impact. Rolling over several times to avoid being hit, she picked up a round tabletop and hurled it like a discus.  
  
Zucco saw the spinning disk flying towards him and ducked. The wooden tabletop narrowly missed his head and crashed into the bar mirror behind him. He quickly jumped up and started running, covering his escape with automatic pistol fire.   
  
Batwoman leaped towards him, slamming into the overweight gangster with a shoulder tackle. As they fell in a heap, she recovered first and kicked out with a powerful back leg, connecting solidly with the fat man's midsection.  
  
"Ooofff...!" Zucco clutched his considerably large stomach as his breath spewed forth like a volcanic explosion. "Don't hurt me! Please!" He pleaded. Batwoman hesitated slightly. As she did so, a small human dynamo appeared out of nowhere.  
  
"You *killed* my mommy and daddy! It's all *your* fault!" Dick shouted, launching himself at Zucco and proceeding to pummel him with his small fists.  
  
"Hey! Get off me!" Zucco shouted grabbing the boy by the collar and holding him out. Dick continued to fight back, flailing his arms and legs uselessly. Batwoman made a move towards to Zucco, but he suddenly held the pistol to the boy's head.  
  
"Let him go!" Bruce shouted, taking a step forward. He stopped at the sight of Dick's wide blue eyes. The little boy's pinched face had gone white. A light smattering of freckles across the bridge of his small nose suddenly stood out in sharp contrast. Bruce thought his heart was going to stop. Turning to Zucco, he held his hands out in a pleading gesture.  
  
"Please...he's just a boy, Zucco. Whatever you did, whatever you've done--it'll go easier on you if you let the boy go."  
  
"Shut up!" Zucco shouted, slowly regaining his feet while clutching Dick to him. "Zucco doesn't go to jail! And Circus Boy here is the only one who can tie me to the Graysons!"  
  
"You're wrong! *I* overheard you talking to that other guy--Jack."  
  
"Don't--!" Batwoman ordered, but Bruce ignored her.  
  
"Zucco, I know you ordered the hit on the Graysons and on Harvey Dent," Bruce said urgently, his words tumbling out. "What are you going to do? Kill us all? They don't send you to the gas chamber for conspiracy, Zucco. Only premeditated murder. If you kill that boy, there's no jury in the world who'll acquit you. You *know* that!"  
  
"Maybe...but they'll have to catch me first." He jerked Dick in closer to him, the crook of his arm around the boy's neck. "As long as I have this kid here for insurance, nobody better try nothing!"  
  
Batwoman moved her hand discreetly towards her belt. Zucco saw the movement and immediately aimed and fired at her. In the blink of an eye, Batwoman was diving and rolling out of harm's way. Before Bruce could react, the gun's muzzle was pointing at him.   
  
"Freeze!" Zucco ordered. Bruce looked like he was about to ignore the command, but Zucco instantly switched the muzzle back to Dick's temple. Bruce saw that Zucco's eyes were moving back and forth between Batwoman and him. "I swear I'll plug the kid if you try anything!"  
  
His mind racing, Bruce made staying motions with his hands, trying to reason with the desperate man. "Look, no tricks," he said. "I don't have anything up my sleeve. All I care about is the boy's safety."   
  
Zucco shook his head. "I ain't going to prison!" he insisted. "Try anything and the kid gets it first!" Glancing quickly over his shoulder, Zucco started to slowly back up, his arm still securely holding the squirming boy.  
  
"Look! Take me, instead," Bruce offered. "I promise I won't give you any trouble--!"  
  
"What are you doing--?" Batwoman gasped. Bruce continued talking as if he hadn't heard her.   
  
"--I'll pay whatever ransom you ask for. Get you whatever transportation you want to take you anywhere in the world. Just let the boy go...*please*!"  
  
While Bruce spoke, Zucco had been slowly approaching an open door, dragging Dick along. At Bruce's frantic proposal, the gangster paused for a second. He looked like he was actually thinking the offer over when Dick suddenly kicked back with his foot and hit him hard on the shins.  
  
"Owww--! You little--!" Zucco yelled. The surprise pain caused him to loosen his hold on his small hostage and Dick took advantage of it, successfully wriggling out of Zucco's grasp. Realizing he'd lost his insurance, Zucco ran off firing his weapon to cover his escape.   
  
Without stopping to think, Bruce dove across the space that separated him from Dick and grabbed the boy, shielding him with his own body as a volley of automatic fire burst all around them.  
  
Batwoman dodged the hail of bullets, executing a beautiful set of ballet moves in the air. As she did so, she pulled out an object from her belt, pressed a hidden switch on it, felt its satisfying snap and threw!  
  
Landing underneath a table, she heard Zucco scream in pain as her 'Batarang' (as she called it) found its mark. Regaining her feet, she caught sight of Zucco running out the backdoor, which led to a staircase. About to give chase, she was stopped by a shout behind her.  
  
"Wait!"  
  
Batwoman whirled around at the sound of the voice. Bruce. He was sitting up, checking the boy with slightly shaking hands. She watched fascinated as Bruce tenderly ran a hand along the boy's cheek. Bruce was so good with kids. She felt her throat catch at the look of longing in his eyes.  
  
"Are you all right, son?" he asked. The boy nodded and then with a wordless cry threw his arms around Bruce. "It's okay, son," Bruce said soothingly. Looking over Dick's shoulder, Bruce addressed the strangely garbed woman standing before him. "Who *are* you?" he asked.  
  
"A friend," she said, her voice little more than a raspy growl. About to turn away again, she was startled by the widest set of blue eyes she'd ever seen. The boy had suddenly taken a quick look up from behind Bruce's protective shoulders and was now glaring at her with angry accusation.  
  
Dick's dark blue eyes suddenly narrowed. "Where *is* he?" he yelled. "He's getting away! You're letting him get away!" With that, he pushed away from Bruce and started running in the same direction that Zucco had headed.  
  
"Dicky!" Bruce yelled, taking off after the boy.  
  
"No! Bruce!" Batwoman yelled, frustrated. At the sound of his name, Bruce hesitated at the door giving her a hard stare. His jaw dropped. He took a hesitant step towards her.  
  
"Babs?" he said softly, recognition dawning in his eyes. A child's scream from above cast all other concerns from his mind. He turned abruptly and raced after Dick.  
  
"Great going, Barbara," Batwoman muttered. Shaking her head, she took out a grappling gun, aimed up towards the skylight and fired. As she rose, she silently berated herself.   
  
"You knew this was bound to happen sooner or later. You knew you'd run into Bruce sometime as the Bat. So, what do you do? Pretend you don't know him? Call him *Doctor* Wayne? No-ooo--You call him *Bruce*! Why didn't you just wave your wedding band under his nose?"  
  
As she flipped her legs over and onto the rooftop, she added in disgust. "You're an idiot."  
  
****  
  
Under a corner table, Jack's good eye lit in silent mirth. "Oh, Jackie-boy this is good! This is just *too* good!" Taking hold of a chair's leg, Jack pulled himself painfully to his feet. Using the wall for support, he managed to drag himself out of the bar and to freedom.  
  
"Bruce and Babs! Dr. Bruce Wayne and his lovely wife, assistant DA Barbara Gordon."  
  
As he placed some distance between Oxie's and himself, Jack felt the strangest urge to giggle. Unable to help himself, a high nervous chuckle escaped his lips as he stumbled down the street.  
  
Spying a Porsche parked a half-block away, Jack grinned suddenly. "Jackpot, baby!" he said. "Come to Papa!" Climbing into the driver's side, Jack easily jumped the starter.   
  
Thirty minutes later, he was pulling into Zucco's last business front, Ace Chemical Company...  
  
****  
  
Dick burst through the door leading onto the rooftop. He quickly spied Zucco running across the roof's tarmac.   
  
"You can't get away, fatso!" Dick yelled running up behind him. Zucco turned and fired. Dick automatically went into his 'act.' Making each move look as if he were born to dodge bullets, the child acrobat dove and executed several handsprings in a row, interspersing it with a tumbling run that would put a world-class gymnast to shame.  
  
Zucco kept firing until his weapon finally ran out of bullets. Dick regained his feet in a smooth motion and continued his pursuit. Zucco threw his gun in a classic act of desperation and turned to resume his escape.   
  
As Dick neared the grossly overweight gangster, he closed the gap by leaping and slamming into Zucco feet first. Man and boy went down in a tangle of arms and legs, but before Zucco could react and grab him, Dick back flipped out of his reach.   
  
Zucco made a move as if to get up and go after Dick, but suddenly cried out an unintelligible sound. He leaned forward, clutching at his chest.  
  
"M-My h-heart--!" he gasped, falling to his knees. "My heart--!" He pitched forward, rolling onto his back.  
  
Dick ran up to him and grabbed him by the lapels, shaking him. "You're act won't work, Zucco! I'm gonna--!"  
  
"Kid--!" Zucco gasped. "Doctor...I need a doctor...!"  
  
Dick suddenly felt himself being lifted and shoved unceremoniously out of the way.  
  
"Dicky, the man's having a heart attack!" Bruce said tersely. "I'm a doctor. Let me help."  
  
Dick stood mutely aside. "But--I thought he was just making it up."  
  
"It's not your faulty, Dicky," Bruce reassured him as he worked on the man who just moments before was trying to kill them all.  
  
"How may I help?"  
  
Bruce didn't look up as a cold, dark shadow suddenly fell over him. Instead, he kept applying the steady compressions on his unmoving patient's chest.   
  
"You can call 9-1-1," he said curtly. "This man needs to be taken to a hospital."  
  
"Already done," the low, raspy voice replied. "Fire Rescue and the GCPD are both on the way."  
  
"Then you can take the boy home. He doesn't need any more publicity so soon after his parents' deaths."  
  
He stopped compressions for a second, checked Zucco's pulse and his breathing, and got back to work.  
  
"Sorry. The other man got away. I have to go after him--"  
  
"*Look*, *Bat*woman! I'm a little busy here. And when Fire Rescue arrives I'm probably going to have accompany my patient to the hospital. I'm *asking* you for your help."  
  
He didn't look up to see the effect of his words. Taking her silence as acquiescence, he added sarcastically, "Think you can find Wayne Manor?" At this last, Bruce finally looked up. The cowled figure nodded.  
  
"Good," he snapped. "Now, please, get Dicky out of here. This is no place for a child."  
  
****  
  
Dick kept sneaking glances at his mysterious benefactor. He hadn't wanted to leave with her, but Bruce insisted...  
  
"But I don't want to go without you," Dick protested. Not looking up from his desperate task, Bruce still managed to speak reassuringly.  
  
"Don't worry, son. You'll be perfectly safe with her." Not breaking rhythm, he glanced up at this point. "Do you trust me?"  
  
Dick looked uncertain, but something in Bruce's eyes spoke to him. Feeling warmed inside, he smiled slightly and nodded. Bruce's dark blue eyes softened and he held the boy's gaze a moment longer.  
  
He turned to Batwoman. They didn't exchange any words, but Dick saw an imperceptible message pass between them nevertheless. He stared at them, wondering...  
  
"Do you know Dr. Wayne?" Dick asked. His question was ignored. Dick was beginning to feel just a little worried. He instinctively trusted Bruce, and Bruce had told him to trust this strange lady.   
  
Dick looked askance at her. He hoped Bruce's trust wasn't misplaced.  
  
"Where are we going?" he tried next.  
  
"Home," she replied. Her voice was a cross between sandpaper and a tiger's throaty growl.   
  
"Oh."   
  
Dick sat up and looked curiously around the car's control center. There were a myriad of blinking lights, dials, and switches. A red blinking light caught his attention. The light was actually a button. Curious, he reached forward to press it, when his wrist was suddenly grabbed.  
  
"Don't touch anything."  
  
Startled, Dick looked agape at her, his blue eyes wide with fear. He gave her a quick wordless nod, and abruptly she released his wrist. She'd never taken her eyes off the word.  
  
Still keeping her eyes straight ahead, she pointed to a spot a little below the button. Squinting Dick saw that it was writing. Leaning closer, he read the fine print and swallowed--rocket launcher.  
  
Dick instantly sat back, crossing his arms and legs, and slouched in his seat. He sat quietly for about thirty seconds, his heart racing. But then, in the next instant, something else in this fascinating car caught his attention. He bent forward and began fiddling intently with the glove compartment.   
  
Before he could open it, however, he was jerked backwards by the scruff of the neck.  
  
"What part of 'don't touch anything' do you *not* understand?" she growled.  
  
He stared at her clearly frightened, but determined to put up a brave front. "You don't scare *me*," he declared. "I grew up in the circus. I used to play with the lions when I was just a little kid."  
  
The mysterious cowled figure ignored him.  
  
"Why do you dress up funny like that?" he asked belligerently. He thought he saw a noticeable tightening of the lips. Dick felt a little worried. She didn't seem very nice. Dr. Wayne had told him to trust her, but maybe he'd made a mistake about her.  
  
As the silence between them lengthened, Dick grew a little annoyed with her. He didn't like it when grownups treated him like he wasn't there. Daddy had always spoken to him like a person, not like a little kid who didn't know anything. He'd called him his partner, his right hand man.  
  
All of a sudden, Dick felt a wave of cold sweep over him. Daddy and Mommy were gone. He was all alone. He blinked rapidly against the stinging in his eyes. He wouldn't let this weird lady see him cry. Boys didn't cry.   
  
He wouldn't cry.  
  
He sniffed quietly and quickly wiped his eyes.  
  
"Here." The low growl sounded a little softer. Blinking, Dick made out a handkerchief through the blur of tears. He took it wordlessly.  
  
"I'm n-not c-crying," he said. "I g-got something in m-my eye."  
  
A gloved hand lightly caressed his cheek. "I know."  
  
Neither spoke again for the rest of the drive. He must've fallen asleep because the next thing he knew, he was being carried inside the massive house and the large black car was disappearing down a long gravel path.  
  
The pink sky in the east announced the coming of the new day.  
  
****  
  
"Thanks for the lift, Lt. Bullock."  
  
"Any time, Doc," Bullock said, removing his signature vile cigar. He reached across the seat and shook hands with Bruce. "You shouldn't take it so personally, Doc. Them's the breaks. Zucco was a fat slob who got what was coming to him. Can't win 'em all."  
  
"I know," Bruce said quietly. "It's the boy I'm worried about. How will this affect him?"  
  
"Hey, if I was the kid, I'd been dancing a jig should I find out the guy responsible for murdering *my* parents hadn't made it."  
  
Bruce gave Bullock a long, hard stare. "That's what I'm afraid of," he said softly. With that he opened the passenger door and got out, slamming it behind him.  
  
"Oh, Doc?" Bullock called. Bruce leaned in, single eyebrow raised. "We've put out an APB on your Porsche." He shrugged. "Chances are it was taken to a chop shop. And already sold for parts. I'll give you a call should anything turn up."  
  
Bruce nodded. He stood for a moment watching the police unmarked cruiser as it disappeared down the long gravel drive. It was going to be a beautiful, crisp Autumn day. The sounds of birds chirping and the fragrant smell of leaf-covered damp earth wafting in the gentle morning breeze reminded him that life went on.  
  
Just like his parents had tried to teach him, and he'd learned only after their sudden, senseless deaths.   
  
Just like the doctors at Gotham Children's Hospital where he'd interned had tried to teach him, and he'd learned only after his first patient, a thirteen-year-old hit-and-run victim died.  
  
How had his mother put it?  
  
"To enjoy the rainbow, Bruce, you must first have the rain." A half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Okay, Mom. But it sure seems as if the skies have been overcast for a helluva long time now."   
  
He thought sadly of his failing marriage, of what he'd discovered last night. How would he make it through the next few hours, not to mention the next few days?  
  
A small child's innocent face appeared to him--Dick. The boy's wide blue eyes reflected the same pain that Bruce had felt when he lost his own parents, his first patient, and each one that followed. The pain he felt now at the thought that maybe he'd lost his wife.  
  
If his own life was currently under a rain cloud, Dick was certainly the rainbow. Just thinking of the boy made Bruce feel somewhat better.   
  
"Maybe--" he whispered, not daring to articulate his inner feelings. "Maybe..." he repeated softly, deciding to leave it at that for now.  
  
****  
  
End of Part 1  
To Be Continued...  



	2. (Part 2)

Summary: Bruce confronts Barbara about her double life.  
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to DC and Time/Warner; this is an original story that doesn't intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome.  
  
Copyright September 2000  
  
****  
  
Otherwheres  
By Syl Francis  
  
****  
  
Chapter Six  
  
Barbara was sitting at the breakfast table quietly sipping her morning coffee. She felt exhausted. The long days and longer nights were taking their toll on her. Physically she was in better shape than she'd been her entire life, but she was only human.   
  
"Eventually, you gotta pay," she murmured. Pausing momentarily she realized that she'd just quoted Harvey Dent. He'd become like a second father to her. At this thought, she made a rueful face.   
  
"Or, in my case, a *third* father," she amended softly. When she was appointed to the District Attorney's office, Dent took her under his wing and mentored her through her early cases.  
  
"What your dad doesn't understand, Barbara," he'd say, "is that no matter what kind of sorry background you've had--abusive or otherwise--you have no right to prey on society. Eventually, you gotta pay for your mistakes."  
  
"Harvey was right--Dad never really understood my need to go into law to seek justice. He always thought that there were better ways to help others. And Bruce is his father's son."  
  
"You're right, Babs, I *don't* understand."  
  
Barbara looked up towards the kitchen door. Bruce was standing there, disheveled and obviously tired. His cuts and welts had been bandaged, but she could see the beginnings of an ugly bruise over his left cheek. He looked adorable, and as always, her heart skipped a beat when she gazed into his eyes.  
  
Barbara looked away quickly. Here it comes, she thought. Okay, you've been preparing for this, Barbara. The truth or more lies?   
  
"Who *are* you, Babs?"  
  
"What?" she asked, startled by the question.  
  
"I don't know you anymore," Bruce said. "You're not the woman I married."  
  
"Bruce--!" she began.  
  
"The Babs I know...or thought I knew...would never keep secrets from me. She talked to me. Shared her thoughts and her feelings with me."  
  
He sat down across from her. Babs reached over to touch his cheek, but he drew back from her.  
  
Barbara lowered her hand. Dropping her eyes, she picked up her coffee cup and made a show of bringing it to her lips. Gathering her courage she looked up again, her mask in place.  
  
"Bruce, darling, I don't understand what you're talking about. I came home late last night and found you gone. Even Alfred didn't know where you'd gone off--"  
  
"Don't--!" Bruce shouted. Picking up a coffee cup, he flung it against the wall. Barbara flinched as it struck the splatter guard behind the kitchen sink, shattering into a thousand pieces. They both stared at the spreading stain along Alfred's immaculate kitchen, like the spreading stain in their marriage.   
  
"Just don't," he whispered. "I'm not a fool, Babs. It was you last night. In that costume. All the way to the hospital, and later at police headquarters, I kept telling myself that it wasn't true. But I can't lie to myself, Babs. Anymore than you can lie to me."  
  
"Bruce, please. I can explain," Barbara began.  
  
"Can you? You're an officer of the court, Babs. You know that what you're doing is nothing more than vigilantism and outside the law." He shook his head. "I just don't understand, Babs. What's got into you?"  
  
"You're asking me to explain something that I can't explain to myself, Bruce. Please, try to understand." She stood up and walked over to him. This time, he didn't recoil from her touch. She brought her hand up to his cheek and pulled him to her.  
  
Bruce came willingly into her arms. Their lips touched, softly at first, then with growing passion. Bruce tightened his arms around her, pressing his lips harder to hers. He put every emotion he'd been struggling with into his kiss, going from a desperate plea for understanding, to his growing desire for her nearness, to a demand for her surrender.  
  
Abruptly, Barbara broke away. Bruce tried to hold on to her, but she put the kitchen table between them.  
  
"Babs, I *love* you," he choked. "I always have and I always will. You know that."  
  
"I'm sorry, Bruce. The Bat is a part of me that I can't escape. You have to accept that." She looked at his hurt expression and almost changed her mind. But no. If she promised that she'd never be the Bat again, then that *would* be a lie. The time for lies and secrets was over.   
  
"This is the way it has to be," she said.  
  
Bruce's dark eyes raked her with a smoldering glare. "No, it's not the way it *has* to be. It's the way you *want* it to be. And I don't know why. If it were another man, maybe I'd be able to fight for you. To win back your love. But *this*--? This obsession that's somehow taken over your life--*our* lives?"  
  
He took a step towards her, his expression pleading.  
  
"Don't you see what you're doing? You're destroying the most precious thing we have--the one thing that our wealth could never buy back. Our marriage. Babs, when I swore for better or for worse, to love, honor and obey--to forsake all others--I meant what I said. My marriage means everything to me. *You* mean everything to me. Please, don't throw it away it."  
  
"But, Bruce this doesn't have to come between us. My feelings for you haven't changed. Please understand. This is important to me--to the people of Gotham. *Someone* has to stand up to these monsters and say *No more!* The law can't touch most of them. I know. As the assistant DA, I *know* that we didn't have anything on Tony Zucco or his organization."  
  
Her expression darkened, green eyes flashing their smoldering anger at the thought that the gangster was going to be allowed to walk.  
  
"Can't you see? The GCPD's hands are tied. They can't cross the line that someone like the Bat *can*. They can't be held responsible for a vigilante that takes matters into her own hands. And they certainly can't be held responsible if the vigilante somehow manages to find the necessary evidence that's been eluding them through more conventional, legal means."  
  
Barbara's eyes suddenly brightened at the possibilities.   
  
"But it's tainted evidence, Babs," Bruce said quietly. "And at what price? You've sworn to uphold the law, to protect the citizens of Gotham City from those who would prey upon them."  
  
"And that's what I'm doing," she insisted. "I may be a little outside the law, but I would never cross the line, Bruce. You *know* that!"  
  
Bruce stared at her long and hard. "Do I?" he asked. "I'm not so sure anymore." He turned away and headed towards the door, pausing there. "How's Dicky?" he asked, his back to her.  
  
"He's upstairs asleep. Poor baby's exhausted. It's been a long night for him," she said.  
  
"Yes," Bruce said nodding. "A long night." He glanced at her over his shoulder. "You know he doesn't have anyone left. Bullock informed me that Child Welfare Services is looking at placing him in temporary foster care until a suitable couple can be found to adopt him."  
  
"Doesn't anyone in the circus want to adopt him?" Barbara asked.  
  
"Yes, but CWS is planning to petition Family Court that an itinerant circus is an unsuitable place for a child."  
  
"That's ridiculous!" Barbara protested. "That boy grew up in a circus. Surely, CWS realizes that by placing him with someone else, they're basically cutting him off from his own roots, just like--!" She stopped.  
  
Bruce turned around.   
  
"--Just like when you were placed with my family and not one of your father's police officer friends," he finished.   
  
"Bruce, I didn't say--"  
  
"No, but it's what you meant," he said leaning against the door, shoulders slumping.  
  
"Bruce, do you want *us* to adopt that boy?" she asked.  
  
"Dicky," he said annoyed. "He has a name, for crissakes!" Bruce looked away for a moment, visibly getting himself under control. "If he's torn from the ones he loves, from everything he knows, the last thing Dicky needs is to be placed with total strangers. Okay, admittedly we just met last night--under horrendous circumstances--but there's something about him..."  
  
"He trusts you," Barbara said. The simple statement was an offering of sorts. Bruce accepted it for what it was and nodded his thanks.  
  
"Babs, please think about it. If not for me, then for him. He has no one left. A boy needs a father." His expression softened. "And a mother. And we can provide him with both. Please? Think about it?"  
  
Barbara held his eyes wordlessly, unable to make any promises that she might have to break later.  
  
Bruce closed his eyes as if in pain and then turned and left the kitchen.  
  
****   
  
Bruce passed Alfred in the upstairs hallway. He was arranging a spray of autumn flora.  
  
"You knew, didn't you?"   
  
Alfred paused his careful flower arrangement at the accusatory tone in Bruce's voice. Without turning, he nodded. Bruce grabbed Alfred by the elbow and forced the loyal friend to face him.  
  
"How could you have let her?" Bruce shouted, his dark eyes burning accusingly. Alfred held his eyes calmly, however, his pain was evident.  
  
"How could I have stopped her?" Alfred answered.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?" Bruce's anguish dripped from each word uttered.  
  
"I gave her my word."  
  
Bruce turned his back, closing his eyes as if to shut out what he felt was his disintegrating life. Unable to argue Barbara back to what he thought was their storybook existence, Bruce lashed out at the man who'd been best friend, confidant, and second father to him--Alfred.  
  
"I just can't believe it!" Bruce raged, his jaw clenched. "Babs has been running around Gotham City dressed up like a-a *bat*? And punching out criminals? And you knew about it? Have you *both* gone crazy?"  
  
Alfred sighed. "I understand your objections, sir. But as I said, Miss Barbara left me little choice. She demanded my oath to keep her secret. Said that she needed at least one assistant in her endless battle, otherwise she wouldn't have placed me in such an awkward position."  
  
"But when? How?" Bruce demanded. He recalled the late hours of the past few months. Not to mention the unexplained expenditures. His parents had left Babs independently wealthy, but their worried financial advisor had spoken to him on more than one occasion about the vast amounts of money that she was going through.   
  
Babs had blithely sidestepped Bruce's questions, easily distracting him with her kisses and caresses in bed. Recalling the assortment of equipment she'd utilized last night, plus the super-turbo charged car she'd driven away in, Bruce suddenly realized just where the mysteriously missing funds had been going.  
  
"Following the Waynes' murder," Alfred began. "And before. While you were still in medical school, she began to experiment with different ideas. That's how I found out. She sneaked back into the manor following one of her late-night sojourns--hours after she'd supposedly already gone to bed. I discovered her gone and waited up for her. I found her trying to sneak in from the cave. That's when I confronted her for the first time. I confess that I was surprised when she told me what she was doing--or trying to do. Before I could threaten to tell your parents, she managed to compel a promise out of me to keep her secret."   
  
Alfred steadily held Bruce's gaze, regret battling with pride in his face.  
  
"I've never been able to say 'no' to Miss Barbara, I'm afraid." Alfred looked away. "After the Waynes' tragic deaths, she grew obsessed. You were busy trying to keep the clinic and your new corporation going, fighting society's problems your way--the way your father before you did."  
  
"Waitaminute!" Bruce protested. "I remember those days. Babs was in shock for several days following the wedding. Both Mom and Dad had been murdered practically in her arms. I placed her in your care--!"  
  
Alfred nodded regretfully, still holding Bruce's eyes calmly.  
  
"Yes, you placed her in my care. And as soon as she was able to, she began on her dark journey. While you were working late nights in the hospital emergency room, she was out hunting Two-Face. Ironically, it took her two weeks to do so. Perhaps, he planned it so. She told me later that he'd been waiting for her, as if he knew that she'd be coming for him."  
  
Alfred sighed. "And she's been hunting ever since. When you stopped working the night shift in the ER, ostensibly to spend more time with your wife, she instead began to work 'late hours' at the DA's office. In reality--"  
  
"--In reality, she was playing vigilante," Bruce finished. He looked down at his feet. Thinking about Dent and the psychotic maniac he'd become, Bruce couldn't help but feel relieved that Barbara was still alive after risking her life to bring him to justice. Or did he feel betrayed that she'd been living a double life for almost three years now?   
  
And what about our marriage, he wondered? Has it all been a lie?  
  
Yet, she professed to love him. Though not enough to stop this insanity.  
  
"I've kept my promise to Miss Barbara and have never breathed a word of this to anyone, until now. You're her husband. You've sworn to love her and to hold her, 'til death do you part."   
  
At these words, Bruce flinched visibly as if struck. "Alfred, I can't sit back and watch while she risks her life like this. And I can't just sit here at home each night waiting for something to happen to her." He shook his head. "I don't have that kind of strength."  
  
"I'm sorry, Master Bruce. I wish I had something deep and profound with which to offer you comfort, but I can't because I myself have yet to come to terms with Miss Barbara's chosen path."  
  
Bruce smiled bitterly. "Funny, my marriage is collapsing around me and no one seems able to explain exactly why."  
  
"Perhaps you're correct, young man," Alfred conceded, an underlying layer of steel in his voice. "However, rather than spending the next few hours sulking over your hurt pride might I suggest that you pay a visit to someone who is hurting much more than you?"  
  
At Bruce's look of abashment, Alfred nodded towards Bruce's old nursery where Dicky was now staying. "I believe there's a little boy in there who needs you right now."  
  
Bruce held Alfred's gaze uncertainly and then glanced over to the door leading to his old room. Finally, he nodded.  
  
****  
  
Bruce silently watched him for a few minutes. The boy sat huddled at the window seat, staring out at the immaculate manor grounds, but obviously not seeing anything. Dick wiped at his eyes and then, bringing his knees up to his chest, he buried his head in his arms.  
  
Bruce quickly crossed the room and sat next to him. He handed Dick a handkerchief without a word. Dick took it without looking at Bruce, and then sat up straight, keeping his eyes downcast.  
  
"Thank you, sir," he whispered.  
  
Bruce reached over and gently ran his hand along the boy's dark head. "It's okay to cry, you know," he said.  
  
"Daddy said that I was a big boy now," Dick said softly. "Big boys aren't s'posed to cry."  
  
"Did your father tell you that?" Bruce asked. Dick shook his head.  
  
"Uh-uh." He looked up slowly. "But everybody knows that." He shrugged. "I guess you think I'm nothing but a crybaby."  
  
"On the contrary," Bruce said, placing an arm around the boy's shoulder, "I think you're a remarkably brave little boy. I never would've tried to go after the man who killed *my* parents." As he said these words, Bruce tried not to think about Barbara having done exactly that.  
  
"Were *your* mommy and daddy killed, too?" Dicky whispered. Bruce nodded. "I'm awful sorry. I didn't know."  
  
Bruce hugged the boy to him in mutual comfort. "So you see, Dicky, I know just how you're feeling right now. And you know what?" Dick shook his head, listening. "I wasn't the least bit ashamed to cry when I lost my mom and dad," Bruce told him. "And I was already a grown man."  
  
"Y-you were?" Dick asked, his dark blue eyes wide with surprise. He couldn't imagine this big and brave man, who reminded him so much of his father, crying.  
  
"Sure was," Bruce confessed sadly. "It hurt to lose them, Dick, because I loved *my* Mom and Dad very much, too." He paused for a moment, gauging the effect of his words on the young boy. "Dick, when we lose people we love, or when other bad things happen to us, it's only natural for us to respond with tears. Just as when nice things happen, we might respond with laughter. It's what makes us human."  
  
Head hanging low, Dick nodded wordlessly. Bruce didn't say anything else for a few moments, instead he watched the boy closely. Finally, Dick spoke softly.  
  
"Why did they have to die? Mommy and Daddy never hurt anybody. Why did he want to hurt them?" When he finally looked up, the boy's face was stricken, hot tears spilling from his dark eyes.  
  
Bruce lifted Dick to his lap and held him tightly. "I don't know, son. I wish I knew, but I don't."  
  
Dick leaned his head on Bruce's broad chest.   
  
"I tried to warn them," he sobbed. "To tell them about what I'd overheard. But they wouldn't listen. It's all my fault. I knew it was going to happen, and I didn't warn them." He sobbed brokenheartedly. "It's all my fault."  
  
"No," Bruce said quietly. "Of course it isn't your fault, son. Shhh-shhh...It's not your fault, son...It's not your fault..."  
  
After an eternity, the storm finally passed and Dick looked up solemnly. "That bad man--Zucco? The one who had a heart attack?"  
  
Bruce nodded, waiting for the boy to ask the question.  
  
"Is he going to be okay?"  
  
"No, Dicky," Bruce said. "I'm afraid that Zucco didn't make it. He died on the way on to the hospital." Dicky sighed in Bruce's arms. "Tell me how that makes you feel, son. It's okay. Don't be afraid."  
  
"It makes me feel sad," Dicky admitted. "I said I wanted him to die, too, but I guess I really didn't. Did he have a little boy or a mom and dad?"  
  
Bruce smiled sadly, yet with a deep sense of relief at the boy's response. He nuzzled Dick's dark head with his cheek. "I don't know, Dicky. But I promise you that I'll find out." Bruce didn't say anything else for a few moments, just held the boy to him, offering his strength to him. "You're a very special boy, Dicky. Very special."  
  
When Dick didn't respond, Bruce finally noted that the exhausted child was sound asleep in his arms. Bruce stood up and carried Dick over to the child-sized bed. He laid him down and tucked him in.   
  
Again, Bruce felt his throat catch as he watched Dick's small face, pinched even in sleep. He reached over and smoothed back his dark hair. As he did so, Dick's face finally smoothed out and settled down into an untroubled sleep.  
  
"I promise you, son," he whispered, "that you'll never be alone."  
  
****  
  
Later that morning, Bruce pulled his Explorer into the uneven dirt roads leading to the Gotham County Fairgrounds. As he slowly drove in, Bruce saw the Haly Circus Big Top being brought down by an army of roustabouts. A sign at the entrance proclaimed, "Metropolis--One Night Only! October 31st! Come see the Haly Circus Halloween Night Extravaganza!"  
  
"I guess that 'The Show Must Go On,'" Bruce mused, sourly. He parked the SUV and began walking along the campgrounds. Finally, he spotted a sign indicating the manager's office. He made his way towards the weather-beaten motor home and quickly climbed the three steps leading to the outer stoop.   
  
Bruce knocked and a rather subdued Haly opened the door. The two men had met the previous month when Bruce first approached the circus owner about a special one-night performance for charity.  
  
"Come in, Dr. Wayne." They shook hands, and Haly waved Bruce into his trailer. As Haly led Bruce into his home, he stooped and picked up newspapers, books, and clothing that seemed to lie on every exposed surface. He indicated a small sofa and Bruce sat down.  
  
"May I offer you some coffee?" Haly asked, as he poured himself a cup. Bruce declined politely.   
  
"No, thank you, Mr. Haly. I'd like to offer you my sincere condolences about your tragic loss."  
  
"Thank you," Haly said, accepting Bruce's sympathy. "So, what may I do for you, Dr. Wayne?"  
  
"I'm here to talk to you about Dicky, and his parents."   
  
Haly nodded and plopped down behind his desk. "So talk," he said curtly.   
  
"Mr. Haly, I'm interested in adopting the boy--"   
  
"--You're what!? Who do you think you are?" Haly shouted. "Coming here and telling me that? Dicky's my godson. As soon as the funeral's over, I'm petitioning the Court for full custody!"  
  
"I see," Bruce said disappointedly. He looked away momentarily, staring out the small window, catching sight of the colorfully dressed performers and exotic animals. Bruce nodded in understanding and gave Haly any apologetic look.  
  
"I didn't know that Dicky had any godparents. The police informed me that he had no living relatives--"  
  
"--Hey! I may not be blood-related, but that boy's like a grandson to me, y'hear? I knew his grandparents! *And* his parents when they were children growing up in the circus. I owe them!"  
  
Bruce raised his hands in surrender. "Mr. Haly, please. I don't intend to challenge your petition." He shrugged and sighed. "I just wanted to provide Dicky with a home. Obviously, if you or any of the other circus performers wish to do the same, well, it wouldn't be right to uproot him from the only home he's ever known."  
  
Even as Bruce said the words, he realized the truth behind them. Wasn't that what Barbara had tried to tell him earlier?   
  
"Well, I'd best be going," he said, unable to keep the disappointment from his voice. "I'm sure you have a lot of work to do." He stood to go.  
  
"Wait!" Haly said, urging Bruce to sit back down. Bruce settled back on the small couch.   
  
"I-I'm sorry I jumped all over you, Dr. Wayne. You had no way of knowing about my wanting to adopt Dicky." Haly stood up suddenly and waved his arms helplessly. "Some dame from Child Welfare Services came by earlier this morning to tell me that she's petitioning the Court to remand Dicky's custody to CWS."  
  
He looked pleadingly at Bruce. "They want to put my little boy in some foster home, Dr. Wayne. Dicky has a home right here. We're his family. Why would she want to take him from us? A boy needs his family, especially at a time like this."  
  
Bruce nodded and stood up, as well. "Mr. Haly, I'm a doctor and, as you know, a very wealthy businessman. But first and foremost, I'm just a man. Dicky is a very special boy, and I'd be lying if I didn't tell you that I came here hoping to gain your assistance in my bid to adopt him. Anyone would be lucky to be awarded his custody." He shook his head. "I honestly don't know what's going on with Child Welfare Services, but I'm professionally acquainted with a couple of case workers from my work in the hospital. I'll give them a call and see what I can find out."  
  
Haly held his hand out to Bruce.  
  
"I believe you, Dr. Wayne," he said. "Dicky--may I see him?"  
  
"Of course," Bruce said. "Oh, and Mr. Haly, I was informed by the Coroner's office that the Graysons' remains are being released for burial. If it's all right with you, I'd like to pay for the funeral cost." Bruce felt relieved at Haly's nod. "I'll be happy to make all of the arrangements," Bruce added. "My family has a memorial plot at St. Andrew Cemetery. Would that be acceptable?"  
  
Haly nodded. "Dr. Wayne, Johnny and Mary Grayson didn't have much. This is very generous of you. I don't how to thank you."  
  
"Please, it's the least I can do. Like I said--Dicky's a very special boy."  
  
****  
  
Barbara hurried down the carpeted upstairs hallway. She had a one o'clock appointment. If she hurried, she'd just make it. The morning's confrontation with Bruce had gone as badly as expected. Afterwards, he'd simply left, saying he had some 'business' to attend to. As she'd showered and dressed, their earlier 'discussion' and later mutual avoidance, kept intruding as an endless cycle of accusations and long silences.  
  
What would she do if she lost Bruce? Barbara stopped in her tracks.   
  
"What if I've already lost him?" she murmured. No, she wouldn't dwell on such a remote possibility. Bruce loved her. He'd come around.  
  
"I hope," she whispered vehemently.  
  
As she passed Bruce's old nursery, she heard a small cry from within. Dicky, Barbara realized. She looked around desperately for Alfred. He'd just been upstairs a few moments ago, changing bed linens. She reached for the doorknob and paused, listening. She heard the definite sounds of a child's crying.  
  
Carefully, opening the door, she peeked inside. It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the interior gloom. Barbara finally made out the small form tossing restlessly on the bed. Dick was crying in his sleep.   
  
Barbara hesitated. She wasn't good with kids. Maybe she should find Alfred.  
  
"Mommy!" Dick whimpered. "*No*! Mommy! Come back! Please, come back!"  
  
Without being aware of how she crossed the room, Barbara was at Dick's bedside in the next instant and gathering him in her arms.  
  
"Mom-mmee--!" Dick sobbed raggedly. "Mommeee--!"  
  
"Shh-shh-shh..." Barbara crooned softly, rocking him gently. She felt her eyes stinging, remembering her own pain at her father's loss. Dick finally quieted in her arms, and she laid him back against his pillows. To her surprise, a pair of tearful blue eyes gazed up at her.  
  
Unsure of what to say, she smiled sadly down at him while smoothing back his dark hair. He looked so much like Bruce at his age she suddenly realized. Only back then, it had been she who'd wake up crying, and Bruce who'd comforted her. Even as a child, he'd known instinctively how to bring comfort to those in pain.  
  
She reached across to the nightstand and pulled out a couple of tissues. Dick took them wordlessly.  
  
"Thank you, ma'am," he whispered, looking at her curiously despite his pain.  
  
"You're welcome," she said softly. "We haven't been properly introduced yet, I don't think." Dick shook his head. "Hi, I'm Barbara," she said, offering her hand out to him. Dick shook it solemnly.  
  
"I'm Dick," he said. "Do you know Dr. Wayne?"  
  
"You could say that," she said smiling. "He's my husband."  
  
"He's nice," Dick declared seriously.  
  
"Yes, he is," Barbara agreed.  
  
"You're pretty," Dick added, smiling shyly.  
  
"Why, thank you, sir. That's the nicest compliment anyone's given me all day."  
  
"What time is it?" Dick asked.  
  
"A little after one in the afternoon. Are you hungry?" At Dick's enthusiastic nod, Barbara smiled broadly. "I tell you what--why don't we get you cleaned up first, and then we'll see what Alfred has in kitchen?"  
  
"Alfred?"  
  
"Oh? You haven't met Alfred yet?"   
  
Wide-eyed, Dick shook his head no. Barbara smiled. "Alfred takes care of us," Barbara explained. "And he makes the best Dagwood sandwiches in the world!"  
  
"What's a Dagwood sandwich?" Dick asked curiously.  
  
"You don't know what a Dagwood sandwich is?" Barbara asked, in mock surprise. Dick smiled at her silliness. "Boy! Do *you* have a treat in store for you! Now, come on! Let's get you cleaned up!"  
  
"Okay!" Dick giggled, a ray of sunshine after his earlier heartbreak. He threw off his covers and ran towards the bathroom. Barbara stood and watched after him for a moment, savoring the warm feeling suddenly suffusing her.   
  
****  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
Bruce slammed the phone back into its cradle. Maggie, his secretary, flinched.  
  
He jumped up and began pacing, the morning's frustrations building to a climax. He'd left the fairgrounds and driven into the city to complete some paperwork and make some phone calls before he returned home. He'd wanted to personally handle the funeral arrangements as well as talk to his contacts at Child Welfare Services. The agency's decision to take Dicky from Haly seemed entirely arbitrary.  
  
However, while Bruce had started on his task with a grim determination, now hours later, he was beginning to feel powerless...   
  
"Bad news, sir?" Maggie asked tentatively.  
  
"Bureaucrats!" he growled. "I'm talking about the future of a little boy, and they talk to me about filling out forms and making an appointment for next Thursday!"  
  
"Did they mention Mr. Haly's petition?"  
  
"Yes, and their position is that an 'itinerant circus' is no place for a child," Bruce said in disbelief. "The boy grew up in the circus. It's the only home he's ever known, and these paper pushers are only concerned about a--how did she put it?--a 'stable home,' a backyard, and a good school."   
  
Bruce threw himself on his desk chair and pushed it as far back as it would go, rubbing his eyes against the threatening headache.  
  
"Maggie, sometimes I think that government agencies were invented not to solve society's problems, but rather to add just another hurdle that we have go around."  
  
"Dr. Wayne, perhaps I can help," Maggie offered. Bruce snapped his eyes open and quickly leaned forward, interested.  
  
"I'm listening," he said.  
  
Maggie dropped her eyes embarrassed. "I can't make any promises, of course, but I have a friend who knows someone who has a friend who just adopted a little girl." She caught Bruce's blank look and hurried on.  
  
"I know, it sounds like gobbledygook!" she said. "But let me try to help. According to my friend, this couple went through hell and back in trying to adopt the kid, and most of the hurdles thrown in their path were from CWS. Let me see if I can find the representative from the private adoption agency that helped--"  
  
"But I'm not trying to adopt Dicky," Bruce protested. "I'm trying to find out why CWS is trying to prevent Haly from doing so."  
  
"I know that," Maggie reassured him. "Please, let me see what I can find out."  
  
Bruce reluctantly nodded. "All right, Maggie. Go ahead and see what you can dig up. Meanwhile, I have some funeral arrangements I've gotta get to."  
  
Maggie stood up and quickly made her way to the door, where she paused.  
  
"Dr. Wayne?" she began.  
  
"Umm-hm?"   
  
She saw that Bruce was already deeply immersed in his grim task. Maggie smiled tolerantly. Bruce looked up, his eyes unfocused.  
  
"Dr. Wayne, should CWS deny the circus owner custody, what then? Don't you think that it might be a good idea for you to at least *think* about having the petition documents drawn up? I mean, just in case?"  
  
Bruce blinked and focused on his secretary. Abruptly, he spun his chair around and faced the large windows behind him, which afforded the best view in town. He sat back and stared out for a long moment. Finally, he spoke.  
  
"Maggie, I don't think I've ever wanted anything as much in my life as custody of that little boy. But to do so, after I've given my word--" His shoulders slumped in dejection, but he said nothing further. His deep yearning stabbed at Maggie's heart.   
  
"I understand, sir," she said. And I think that I'll have those papers drawn up for you anyway, she added silently.  
  
****  
  
After Bruce left, Haly busied himself with the minutia of preparing a circus for traveling. He checked the train schedules, verified the embarkation and debarkation points, and made some calls to ensure the availability of the Metropolis Lex Dome.  
  
Haly detested playing Metropolis. The City of Tomorrow meant Lex Luthor, President and CEO of LexCorps, and the host and sponsor of Haly Circus for the past five years. Yeah, the circus could be guaranteed a hefty haul from the gate receipts, but Luthor wasn't exactly the personable host that Bruce Wayne had proven to be.   
  
Haly cringed at the image of Luthor and his minions always barking orders--Do this! Don't do that! And at the moment, the multibillionaire wasn't happy about the tragic loss of the Haly Circus' star act.   
  
"Look, you can tell your boss that everything's gonna be all right!" Haly shouted into the phone. "I'm petitioning the court for custody of the kid. He was the star of the show anyway. The Graysons were good, but the boy's the best in the world, y'hear? Luthor will get his 'Halloween Extravaganza'--guaranteed!"  
  
He listened, annoyed for a few seconds.  
  
"*No*!" Haly yelled. "Under no circumstances are you going to cancel out on us. We have a contract, see? I'm holding you to it! You can tell Luthor what I said, y'hear?"  
  
After a morning of more phone calls and paperwork, Haly finally stood up and stretched.   
  
"So, boss, we still a go for Metropolis?" Harry the Clown asked from the doorway. He look profoundly sad even without the pancake makeup.  
  
Haly nodded tiredly. He sighed in annoyance.   
  
"Yeah, no thanks to that idiot, Zucco!" he growled.   
  
"I heard the Bat got 'im," Harry said in a low awed tone. "Think it's true?"  
  
"Yeah, and good riddance," Haly said sourly. "If only he hadn't pushed so hard! Or insisted on a bigger cut!" Haly complained. "I would've continued hauling the hot merchandise for him cross-country, but no! He had to start with the drugs. I told him! Stolen merchandise was all right, but no drugs! Would he listen?"  
  
"It's too bad about Johnny and Mary," Harry said sadly, shaking his head. "They was good people."  
  
Haly sat down suddenly. "Yeah, they were. I can't believe Zucco had them killed. I never would've believed he'd actually order a hit on us."  
  
"Yeah, boss," Harry agreed. "I guess you can't trust nobody no more."  
  
Haly gave him a disgusted look. "No, I guess not. Look, Harry, don't you have something to do? Wayne's making funeral arrangements for the Graysons, probably for day after tomorrow. Meanwhile, the local manager of the Mid-Coast Railroad is expecting us to start loading at three a.m. I want you to see that everything goes smoothly."  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
"I want the Circus Train loaded and ready to go as soon as the funeral's over," Haly instructed. "I'm staying behind, of course. I need to appear before the Family Court judge to petition for Dicky's custody. So, I'm gonna need you to make sure everything gets set up when the train arrives in Metropolis."   
  
"Sure thing, boss," Harry readily agreed. He turned to go and then stopped. "Uh, boss?"  
  
"Yeah? What is it?" Haly asked impatiently.  
  
"What if--?" Harry hesitated. "What if they won't let you keep Dicky?"  
  
"You mean, what'll happen to the circus if Dicky's placed in some foster home?" Haly glared at Harry who nodded glumly. "Well, we're just not gonna let that happen, are we?" he asked.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"I'll snatch the kid before that happens," Haly declared. "It's just about getting time for an international tour anyway. Mexico maybe. What do you think?"  
  
Harry stared at him in open-mouthed shock. Slowly, understanding began to dawn in his eyes. "I hear that Mexico's fine this time of year, boss."  
  
The two men exchanged broad grins.  
  
****  
  
When Bruce finally came home, it seemed as if he'd stepped into a scene from Family Circle. Barbara was home, dressed in an emerald jumpsuit that brought out the green of her eyes and set off her striking copper hair. She was wearing it down, the way he liked it, not in the usual French chignon she wore to work.  
  
Currently, she was sitting cross-legged on the floor laughing out loud as she tickled Dicky on the tummy. The youngster was rolling on the floor struggling only half-heartedly, while giggling in helpless fits.  
  
When they saw Bruce standing in the doorway, they both jumped up and ran towards to him. Bruce glanced at the game table and saw that they'd been playing--he blinked--Operation?  
  
"Bruce!" Barbara cried, smiling. She hurried over to him and kissed him on the cheek. "Darling, you're just in time to rescue me from this little three-foot demon!"   
  
Dick giggled at the epithet.  
  
"I beat her at checkers seventy-two times in row! Twenty-five straight hands of 'Hearts' and so far fifteen times--"  
  
"Ten times--!" she interrupted.  
  
"No way--!"  
  
"Way--!"  
  
"*Fifteen* times at 'Operation'!" he taunted.  
  
"Did not--!" she protested.  
  
"Did to--!"  
  
Bruce smiled at their easy camaraderie, feeling slightly left out. "Babs, I thought you were going to be tied up in meetings all afternoon?"  
  
"I cancelled," she explained blithely. "Dicky and I have spent the better part of the afternoon getting acquainted. Right, partner?" she asked ruffling his hair.  
  
"Uh-huh!" Dick said, smiling brightly.  
  
"And he cheats at checkers!" she declared.  
  
"Do not!"  
  
"Do to!"  
  
"Not--!"  
  
"To--!"  
  
They both broke into helpless giggles. At this moment Alfred walked in. "They've been carrying on like this all afternoon, I'm afraid. Most unseemly."  
  
"Aw, ease up, Alfred," Barbara teased. "You're just upset 'cause I made you dig up all our old board games."  
  
"Yes, Master Bruce, that is quite correct. I'm afraid that Miss Barbara has gone through almost your entire inventory of childhood board games in a doomed attempt to find one where she might best young Master Richard."  
  
"And she tried to find one that she could beat me in, too," Dick piped up, unaware that Alfred had just said that. Bruce looked down him, a half-smile playing with his lips.  
  
"She did, huh?" He crouched down to eye-level with the boy. "Want to know something? When we were kids, she used to try to pull the same trick with me. Never worked then either."  
  
"Wiped the floor with her, huh?" Dick said knowingly.  
  
"Wasn't pretty," Bruce admitted.  
  
"Want to team up? Me and you 'gainst her and him?" Dick nodded at Barbara and Alfred.  
  
Bruce looked up at Barbara and Alfred, a glint in his eye. "What do you guys say? Best three out of five?"  
  
"Do we select the game?" Alfred asked.  
  
"That's only fair, Bruce!" Barbara interjected. "The challenged picks the game!"  
  
"You're on!" Dicky cried. He and Bruce slapped their open palms in a high five.  
  
"Loser does the dishes!" Barbara suggested excitedly.  
  
"Better take out your Platex gloves, my love," Bruce jeered. "Wouldn't want that manicure to get damaged."  
  
"Oh, yeah?"  
  
"Yeah!"  
  
"Children!" Alfred interrupted. "Please, if you can't play like ladies and gentlemen I'll have to send you each to your room!"  
  
"He started it," Barbara grumbled.  
  
"Did not," Bruce muttered.  
  
"Did to."  
  
"Not--!"  
  
"To--!"  
  
"Children--!" Alfred spoke in mock-stern tones. He caught Dick's eye and winked. Dick smiled. He was beginning to like this place.  
  
****  
  
As the shadows lengthened along the fairgrounds, lights began to wink on, one by one inside the numerous motor homes. Several harsh work lights provided stark illumination for the roustabouts who were still crating equipment for shipment. For the most part, however, the circus population was turning in for the night.  
  
They'd all have an early call tomorrow. They had a loading start time of 3:00am, which meant that the majority would be up and dressed by 1:00am.  
  
Haly rubbed his eyes tiredly and yawned. He glanced at the desk clock. Almost 7:00pm. He had a long day tomorrow, so he decided to turn in...  
  
He woke up suddenly.   
  
"Who's there?" Haly called, disoriented. The night's silence stretched for a long moment. "I must be imagining things," he muttered. He reached awkwardly towards the nightstand and grabbed his glasses. The bedside clock read 11:00.  
  
He gave a frustrated sigh, hit his pillow a couple of times with his fist, and then turned onto his side.   
  
A strange scratching sound seeped into his consciousness. Haly froze. That's it! That's what woke him earlier. Slowly, so as not to give himself away, Haly began moving his hand towards his nightstand. The revolver! He had to get the revolver that he kept hidden inside his nightstand.  
  
"Uh-uh-uh! Let's not do anything naughty!" The warning was accompanied with a high-pitched, almost girlish giggle. Haly sat up suddenly, his heart racing in his chest.  
  
"Who's there?" he repeated, frightened.  
  
"Oh, how soon they forget!"  
  
Haly squinted against the gloom near the sound of the mocking voice. Taking a chance, Haly turned on the bedside lamp. The sudden circle of light cast by the small reading lamp illuminated whoever it was from the knees down. However, his uninvited guest's upper body was still in shadow.   
  
"Who are you?" Haly demanded. "Why don't you show yourself?"  
  
As if in compliance, the intruder began walking towards him. Haly watched fascinated as the light advanced up the intruder's slim body, until only the face remained hidden.  
  
"You haven't forgotten your old friend Jack, have you?" the voice asked disappointedly.  
  
"Jack?" Haly repeated. "Y-you mean, Jack Napier?" At the mention of the name, Haly's voice took on a disdainful tone. "Zucco's hired gun?"  
  
Jack finally stepped fully into the light.  
  
"The one and the same," he said, a sudden giggle escaping his lips. "I've taken over Zucco's little business. And going over my books this afternoon, your name came up as still a piece of *unfinished* business."  
  
As if pulling a sleight-of-hand, Jack's signature Walther P.38 suddenly appeared, dangling nonchalantly from his index finger.   
  
"Haly, I don't like 'debit' columns," he murmured, casually twirling the semiautomatic handgun. "And your debit column is full of red ink." The next moment he was pointing the pistol at Haly's heart. "So what's it going to be, Haly? Red ink--?"  
  
Jack fired, a soft ~pffpht!~ the only sound preceding Haly's scream as the 38 caliber bullet struck him in the arm.   
  
"You *shot* me!" Haly screamed. "I'm bleeding! I need a doctor!"  
  
"You'll need an undertaker if you don't shut your mouth!" Jack threatened, firing another round as a warning. Haly felt the hot zip of the bullet as it just missed his cheek and struck the headboard behind him.  
  
"What do you want?" Haly gasped, feeling his hold on reality slipping.  
  
"For you to keep your end of the bargain you had with Mr. Zucco. You haul the stuff like always, and we all make lots of money," Jack said easily. "Or at least, *I* make lots of money and you don't get killed. How's that?"  
  
"Okay, whatever you want," Haly said, nodding desperately. "Just let me get a doctor. Please!"  
  
"I thought you'd see it my way, 'Pop'," Jack giggled. "By the way, your itinerary's been changed. You're no longer going to Metropolis. My dealers in LA are really desperate for this shipment, so the circus is going to the Left Coast! You know, swimming pools? Movie stars?"  
  
"But we have a contract to appear in the LexDome. We can't just--"  
  
Another ~pffpht!~ this time immediately next to his left knee, stopped Haly from saying anything further.   
  
"You'll personally come to Ace Chemicals in another hour and help load the latest shipment onto a van. You're to ensure that the shipment makes it safely to my buyer in Malibu."   
  
Haly weakly nodded his understanding. His face was scrunched in agony and covered in a soft sheen of perspiration.  
  
"You leave for California tomorrow," Jack finished. "Any questions?"  
  
Haly shook his head dully. His arm was on fire and his heart felt as if it were about to explode.   
  
"What about Dicky?" He didn't know he'd spoken out loud until Jack answered him.  
  
"Don't worry about the little Grayson brat," Jack told him, a wide grin pasted on his face. "I've got plans for him."  
  
****  
  
Bruce woke up suddenly. He glanced at the bedside clock, 12:00. He sighed and just lay in the dark, warmed by Barbara's comforting presence. He smiled as he recalled the evening of family fun. Dick's laughter had warmed their hearts, his pain momentarily set aside.  
  
Then afterwards, Bruce and Barbara made love. It had been so long since they'd spent a night together as man and wife that it felt like the first time.  
  
They'd both been tentative at the beginning, self-conscious in one another's presence. At first he'd just lain in bed watching her, savoring her nearness, breathing in her fragrance, almost speechless at her stunning beauty. As his initial awkwardness subsided, Bruce began taking pleasure in rediscovering his wife, slowly at first, but with increasing need. Barbara willingly yielded to him, letting him show her his love, and returning his need in kind.   
  
It was as if they'd known each other all their lives, which indeed they had.  
  
Bruce smiled in the dark, feeling truly happy for the first time in a long time. He turned over and reached for Barbara. His hand touched an empty mattress beside him. Startled, he shot up in bed, turning on the bedside lamp.   
  
She was gone! He threw off the covers and checked the master bath.  
  
She wasn't there. A cold ache in the pit of his stomach began to spread through him.   
  
"No!" Swearing under his breath, he grabbed his pajamas from where he'd carelessly tossed them and hurried to Alfred's room. He found Alfred's door opened, the bed empty. The cold ache became a growing inner fury.  
  
How could she betray him like this, he raged? After they'd made love?   
  
"She only used me," he muttered. She'd always meant to go out hunting again. She'd only made love to him to lull him into believing that she could play the part of the Happy Homemaker.  
  
And Dicky! Had he been nothing but a pawn in her little game?  
  
Well, no more! Bruce rushed downstairs to the old entrance to their training room in the cave. If he found her, he'd try and talk some sense into her head. If not, then two could play at this game.  
  
He wouldn't be here when she returned.  
  
****  
  
Dicky woke up in the dark. He thought he heard someone walking outside his room. He hurriedly got out of bed and padded over to the door. Opening it slightly, he peeked out--Bruce! He was in his pajama bottoms, and looked upset. Dick ducked suddenly as Bruce turned and began walking towards his room. He held his breath as Bruce walked right by him and kept going.  
  
Curious, Dick followed him, remaining a safe distance behind him. Bruce headed towards the study and went in without pausing. Dick waited until he was sure that Bruce was inside the study before he tiptoed in after him. About to enter, Dick was startled by the phone ringing.  
  
He froze outside the study, listening.  
  
****  
  
Bruce was about to open the old 'secret' entrance when the phone rang. He thought about ignoring it, but in the end realized that it could be a medical emergency.  
  
"Dr. Wayne," he said. "Yes? Haly? Is that you? Haly what is it--?"   
  
He listened to the desperate voice at the other end.  
  
"What? LA--? But I thought you said that you were going to Metrop--"  
  
He listened again, trying to make out what Haly was rambling about.  
  
"Tomorrow? But what about your adoption petition? You can't just abandon Dicky! The boy needs you! What? He's in danger? From whom? Haly you're not making any sense! Batwoman? What about her? No, I don't know how to contact--! Ace Chemicals? Yeah, I know where it is. Jack *What*? Napier? Who--? But--! Haly? Haly?"  
  
Haly had hung up.  
  
Bruce slammed the phone down. Dick was in danger from someone named Jack Napier. According to Haly the guy was currently holed up at Ace Chemicals.   
  
"Zucco had a hired gun named, Jack," he said softly. Haly had begged him to contact Batwoman. He reached for the phone to call the GCPD. Bullock would handle this personally, he knew. He began dialing and then stopped.  
  
"And Babs might get caught in the ensuing crossfire," he added. He shook his head in self-disgust. "I can't believe I'm about to do this," he said and headed towards the underground levels of the manor.  
  
****  
  
"That was very good, 'Pop'!"   
  
Haly looked up with wide, frightened eyes at Jack's mocking sneer. He couldn't believe that he hadn't suspected Jack of any double cross. When he and his roustabout, Eddie, arrived at the chemical plant, Jack and his gang greeted them with casual friendliness.   
  
The next instant, Haly and Eddie found themselves being dragged to the small manager's office, tied up and being beaten half to death by Jack's men.  
  
Now, Haly's bloodied face showed signs of the brutal battering he'd received at the gang's hands. His left eye was swelling shut and several cuts and bruises criss-crossed his face. A steady twin stream of red oozed from his nostrils.  
  
Dazed and barely able to keep his head up, it was obvious that the only thing currently holding Haly upright was the thin nylon rope that Jack's men used to tie him to the desk chair. Haly closed his eyes against the emotional and physical pain from which he was currently suffering.  
  
Jack leaned coolly against the desk, his arms crossed. The muzzle of his handgun was clearly visible against his left arm. He turned to Eddie whom Haly had brought with him to help load the merchandise for shipment.  
  
The roustabout was also tied to a chair, and he was bleeding profusely from several cuts and abrasions, barely conscious.   
  
"I almost believed you myself," Jack said with a laugh. "And if Wayne thinks the kid's in danger, can Batwoman be far behind?" At this, Jack broke into his strange, girlish giggle, sending a shiver up and down Haly's back.  
  
"W-why--?" Haly rasped.  
  
Jack grinned, and then taunted in singsong, "That's for me to know and you to find out!" The next instant, Jack unexpectedly extended his gun arm with the speed of a striking cobra and fired. Haly gasped, recoiling at the sharp report.  
  
Eddie slumped forward, a soft bubbly sigh escaping his lips, followed by silence.  
  
"I guess *he'll* never find out why," Jack said in mock regret. He leaned in nose-to-nose with Haly, his voice becoming threatening. "And neither will you, if you *ever* try to welsh on another job with me. Do you understand, *Pop*?"   
  
Jack emphasized the last word by roughly hitting Haly on his injured arm with the weapon. Haly screamed at the searing agony, almost losing consciousness.  
  
"I asked you," Jack screamed, backhanding Haly across the mouth. "'*Do you understand*'?"   
  
Sobbing raggedly, Haly desperately nodded, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Yeah, Jack," he croaked. "I-I unnerstan--!"  
  
Jack stood back, bestowing his terrified prisoner with a smile of almost gentle compassion.  
  
"Good, because I think that friends should get along. Don't you?" He patted Haly softly on the cheek.   
  
Flinching, Haly closed his eyes and held his breath in terror, believing in his soul that he was about to die.  
  
Abruptly, Jack spun around and headed out the small office. Pausing in the open doorway, Jack struck a heroic pose and then giggling stepped into the vast open bay of the chemical production plant.  
  
Haly didn't need to strain to see what Jack and his gang were producing in the chemical complex. He closed his eyes against the sight. Poison. The same kind of poison that killed his son twenty years ago. The same kind of poison that killed kids on the streets every day.  
  
And now, Eddie was dead.  
  
"What have I done?" Haly whimpered.  
  
****  
  
Chapter Eight  
  
Dick stayed in the shadows as he overheard Bruce's phone conversation. About to follow in Bruce's heels, Dick suddenly dove behind a small soft chair. Bruce and Alfred were coming back from the hidden door. Bruce was ahead, looking thunderous. Alfred followed close behind, his expression calm.   
  
Remaining still, Dick listened.  
  
"I'm sorry, Master Bruce," Alfred said. "You know that I cannot tell you where she's gone."  
  
Bruce spun on his heel and pointed emphatically at Alfred. "If anything happens to her--if she's injured, or worse--I swear, I'll never forgive you. I hope you understand that, Alfred."  
  
"Of course, I do, sir," Alfred said regretfully. "And I hope, sir, that you understand that my loyalties are to all the members of this family--and I shall not betray the trust of one for the other."  
  
"Is that what you call this?" Bruce asked softly, too emotionally drained to raise his voice. "You *let* Barbara go out at night dressed up as *Batwoman*--and call that *loyalty*?" He turned to go, but then stopped. "Just what do you consider 'betrayal'?"  
  
With that, Bruce strode out of the study. Alfred stood and stared for a short while at the open door through which Bruce had left.  
  
"I don't know, Master Bruce," he whispered. "Somehow I've managed to fail you both." He glanced up at the portrait of Thomas and Martha Wayne and shook his head. "But worse, I've failed you, my friends. I promised I'd watch over your children, but apparently I made a jolly botch of job."  
  
Eyes cast down, Alfred walked out of the room.  
  
As soon as the loyal butler left, Dick jumped up and ran down the endless corridors of Wayne Manor, attempting to stay to the dark recesses within the mansion. Arriving at the door leading to the attached garage, Dick quickly slipped inside and came to a halt.  
  
"Now what, Grayson?" he muttered. A sudden noise from behind decided him into action. Not taking a moment to think about it, Dick hastily jumped into one of the many vehicles parked in there, ducked down in the floorboards, and waited.  
  
****  
  
When Bruce left the study, he headed straight towards the garage access, when he realized he was only wearing his pajama bottoms. Muttering an oath under his breath, he quickly returned to his room to change.  
  
Less than ten minutes later he was jumping into the Explorer and turning the ignition. He gunned the engine and shot forward, just clearing the opening garage doors.  
  
"*Loyalty*!" he muttered. "How can he spout 'loyalty' to me? Babs is running around endangering her life at night, and he talks about loyalty!" Bruce downshifted, turning the vehicle into a fire-trail he knew that ran behind his property. It opened out at Highway 61, about twenty minutes from Ace Chemicals.  
  
"What about loyalty to *me*? Or to Mom and Dad's memory? Would they have approved of this? Would they have stood by and let their little girl run around in spandex and a cape and try to fight a solo hand-to-hand battle against Gotham City's underworld?"  
  
Bruce didn't say anything else for a several minutes while he concentrated on the uneven, overgrown, and extremely dark off-road trail that he was taking.  
  
Finally, the smooth blacktop of Hwy 61 appeared before him. Turning onto the four-lane, Bruce revved the engine and was soon speeding at incredibly foolish speeds.  
  
"And I guess you're God's gift, eh, Brucie, boy?" he countered. "Alfred's been your best friend since you were diapers. Has he ever willingly betrayed a trust?" Bruce drove in silence for a few more minutes, suddenly remembering the day that Barbara first entered his life...  
  
****  
  
"This way, Babs!" Bruce called.  
  
"My name's Barbara!" she insisted.  
  
"Sure it is," Bruce said reassuringly, leading her to her room. Pausing dramatically at the door, Bruce beamed at her. "You're gonna have the best view in the whole house!" With that, Bruce threw the bedroom door open.  
  
Barbara stood in the open doorway for a few moments, her lovely green eyes wide with awe. The room had been decorated with her in mind. It had a canopied bed, a beautiful dresser in French white, a wide shelf with a variety of stuffed animals and antique dolls.   
  
Barbara gasped. "That's the most beautiful dollhouse I've ever seen in my life!"  
  
Bruce smiled proudly at his new sister.   
  
"I helped pick it out," he offered. "But Mom made the final decision," he added ruefully. Bruce remembered the warm feeling he'd gotten when Barbara had smiled at him. The sound of a throat being cleared behind them caused both children to turn around.  
  
"Pookie!" Barbara cried.   
  
Standing in the open doorway was Alfred, looking quite dignified despite the fact that he was holding out a battered stuffed bear. Barbara ran towards him, her arms out for her beloved bear.  
  
"Pookie!" Barbara repeated. "Where did you find him?" She looked up at him with shining eyes. "I thought I'd lost him forever!"  
  
Alfred smiled down at her with kind eyes. Bruce spoke up.  
  
"Babs, this is Alfred," he introduced proudly. "He's my best friend. He can find *anything*!" Bruce watched as Alfred and Barbara solemnly shook hands. "Alfred, now that Barbara is gonna my sister, will you be *her* best friend, too?"  
  
"With pleasure, Master Bruce," Alfred replied, a twinkle in his eye.  
  
"That's great!" Bruce yelled, and then dropped his voice to conspiratorial levels. "Babs, Alfred's the *best* secret keeper in the whole wide world. Now that he's your friend, too, you can be sure that if you have any secrets that needs keeping, he's the guy that'll keep 'em!"  
  
Barbara smiled at the both of them, her warm eyes showing that she was home...  
  
Bruce continued his journey in silence, regret at the hurtful words he'd spewed at Alfred gnawing at his gut. How would he ever make it up to him, he wondered? More importantly, would Alfred let him try? He passed a billboard proclaiming, 'Ace Chemicals Company--a Responsible Partner in the greater Gotham County Community! Next left!'  
  
"I gotta help Babs first," he hissed. "Then, I'll make it up to you, Alfred. I promise."  
  
****  
  
Alfred sat alone in the kitchen, reflecting on what he saw as his personal failings. Making up his mind, he stood and unhurriedly began to take out various pots and pans. As soon as he had the desired utensils, he began dragging the necessary foodstuffs from the refrigerator and pantry.  
  
"I can't leave the children to starve," he insisted. "Miss Barbara can't boil water, and the last time Master Bruce tried to cook, he almost burned the kitchen. Young Master Dick must have *something* other than pizza or Chinese take-out while the young Waynes interview a replacement."  
  
He sighed. "It would have been a pleasure to watch that lad grow up here. It's been so long since this house rang with the laughter of children's voices. He's so much like Master Bruce in many ways--and Miss Barbara. But no, I must leave. If Master Bruce has lost faith in me, then there's little recourse. I've failed the family and it's only fitting that I tender my resignation first thing in the morning."  
  
****  
  
Bruce turned off the headlights as soon as he made the final turn into the Ace Chemicals' vast compound. Parking near the entrance, he climbed out of the Explorer and keeping to the deep gloom cast by the thick woods surrounding the complex, he started making his way towards the main building.  
  
****  
  
As soon as Bruce left, Dick dared to take a peek out the back window. He caught sight of a dark figure blending in with the shadows, but that soon disappeared. Waiting a moment longer, Dick took a deep breath, and then gathering his courage, opened the rear passenger-side door and ran out.  
  
Dick realized from the conversations he'd overheard back at the manor, that Barbara was really Batwoman and that Bruce didn't approve. Bruce had been really angry with Alfred for helping Barbara be Batwoman.  
  
Dick wasn't sure why that made Bruce angry. What was such a big deal? Obviously, Batwoman could really take care of herself. Dick grinned suddenly excited.   
  
"Wow--!" he whispered awed, as he ran. "Babs is really Batwoman. How cool is *that*?"  
  
****  
  
Bruce looked up at the third story broken window.  
  
"Not again!" he groaned. Shaking his head in self-disgust, Bruce grabbed hold of a drainpipe that reached from ground to roof and started climbing. He silently berated himself at his embarrassingly slow progress. "That's it, Bruce!" he puffed. "From now on, it's a daily exercise regimen. No more Doctor Flab!"  
  
Reaching the broken window, he awkwardly stretched in order to put his hand and arm through the glass to unlatch the window from the inside. Successful, Bruce excitedly pulled his arm out of the jagged break in the glass. Careless due to his excitement, he accidentally cut his arm severely from the elbow to the wrist.  
  
Unable to stem the bleeding from his position on the drainpipe, Bruce somehow managed to push the window open wide enough to climb through. As soon as he was safely inside, Bruce took his shirt off and wrapped it quickly around the bleeding wound. He knew that he was going to need stitches, but he had to put it off for now.  
  
"Gotta find Babs," he said fiercely.  
  
****   
  
"That's it, boys!" Jack directed from the catwalk above. "Once we've loaded the shipment, and the Haly Circus distributes for us, we'll own Bludhaven, LA, Central City, and Gateway City! Our contacts at each of these places eagerly await the new and improved batch of 'Happy Pills' we've cooked up."  
  
"But, Jack," one of his gang members asked. "The circus owner, Haly, don't look too good. What if--?"  
  
"Don't worry about the details, Marconi," Jack growled. "Haly may own the circus, but *I* own Haly." He held up a flimsy piece of paper.  
  
"And I have the signed contract to prove it!" Jack gave his signature high-pitched giggle. "From here on, Haly Circus jumps through *my* hoops, no questions asked."  
  
Marconi looked up doubtfully, but at a threatening glint in Jack's eyes, quickly nodded and returned to his loading.  
  
****  
  
Haly worked at his bonds with a vehemence borne of desperation. He knew that when Jack walked back in he was a dead man. The contract he'd been forced to sign earlier while being tortured, literally *gave* fifty-one percent majority ownership of the circus to the gangster...  
  
"I'd make it one hundred percent," Jack had laughed, "but I'm not greedy. At least, not yet. Of course, should any unfortunate accident happen to you while we're discussing the agreement later tonight--say you fall into a vat of acid, well, who can blame me? After all, I'll be all torn up with emotion over the untimely loss...!"  
  
"No," whispered Haly. "If I die, then Harriman gets the circus." Haly thought about the younger, prodigal brother who'd run away from the circus as soon as he was old enough, choosing instead to lead a life of relative normalcy as a financial advisor.  
  
"Still, you can take the kid out of the circus," Haly muttered. Feeling the knots loosening, Haly gave the ropes a final yank and his hands were suddenly free. Sitting back momentarily to collect his strength, Haly breathed in short gasps. Using the desk to help him stand, Haly began shakily making his way to the open doorway.  
  
Unfortunately, he'd no sooner stepped through the threshold, than he was spotted. Putting up a weak struggle, Haly was struck on the head and thus easily subdued. The last thing he saw was the laughing figure of Jack directing his minions to deliver Haly to him...  
  
...Consciousness seeped back slowly, first sound, then smell, then--  
  
Sight! When Haly finally managed to open his eyes, he instantly closed them again. What he saw was enough to kill him from fright as what he knew what was about to be done to him.  
  
For Jack's threat of 'accidentally' throwing Haly into a vat of acid was about to come true. Haly was at the moment dangling helplessly above a bubbling cauldron of smelly, corrosive chemicals.  
  
Swallowing, Haly began reciting a long-forgotten childhood prayer. "Hail, Mary, full of grace..."  
  
****  
  
As the sounds of raucous laughter rang through the noisy, smelly industrial complex, three pairs of eyes widened in shock at what Jack had in mind.  
  
One pair in particular suddenly narrowed, a cold fury reflected in their emerald glint.  
  
The lithe shadow suddenly swooped, vanishing into the inky, Gotham night...  
  
****  
  
Dick froze in place.  
  
"Pop..." he whispered. "No, please...not Pop." Inexplicably, his sense of overwhelming loss washed through him again. First Mommy and Daddy and now Pop? Shaking his head, he began to sob quietly. "No...no..." and then, without realizing what he was doing, he was up and running.  
  
"*No*! *Pop*! *Please*! Let him go! *Please!"  
  
The place exploded into activity. The hard-faced men who'd been manufacturing and loading the drugs with which Jack planned to flood the market suddenly broke away from what they were doing and started running after the boy.  
  
"Hey! It's the kid!" Jack shouted. "Get him!"  
  
"Dicky! No, son!" Haly pleaded. "Forget about me, Dicky. Run! Get out of here!"  
  
Dick found himself surrounded by a wall of hulking, bruising men with cruel eyes.  
  
"Hey, boss," Marconi leered. "He sure is a pretty one. Can we have 'im?"  
  
Jack laughed, more of a high-pitched cackle than a sign of amusement. "In good time, Marconi, in good time. Bring him to me!"  
  
Dick meanwhile was looking for a means of escape. When Marconi started for him, Dick unexpectedly shot forward and jumped! And then, before the band of criminals could react, Dick used Marconi's ugly head as leverage, adding momentum to his leap. With the additional height and speed, Dick easily somersaulted over and beyond their reach.  
  
Landing behind the group of men, Dick tumbled and rolled, regained his feet in a smooth motion and started running. Spotting a ladder up ahead, he sprinted towards it.  
  
****  
  
"A criminal mind is such a terrible thing to waste," Jack muttered, shaking his head. He'd watched in growing disbelief as the boy managed to escape his entire motley crew. "Idiots," he hissed. "Idiots, all!"  
  
"Yeah," Haly sneered, momentarily forgetting his own predicament. "Maybe you should require your incoming gang members to take something like SATs for Crime. That way you could measure their criminal potential. As it is, these guys couldn't make it as clowns in the circus."  
  
Jack turned to him, a strange light in his eyes. "Clowns?" he asked. "I like clowns. They're so deliciously frightening." He grinned, sending further chills down Haly's back. "I hear that's how John Wayne Gacy lured his young victims to their deaths." Becoming serious, he added, "I've always wanted to be a clown. How do they get them all inside that little clown car, by the way?"  
  
Haly stared at Jack unbelievingly. How could this guy talk about clowns at a time like this? A shout from down below drew his attention.  
  
A black shadow suddenly appeared out of nowhere. The next instant a brief explosion rang in the building and the place became engulfed in darkness!  
  
****  
  
"Dicky...!" Bruce hissed. "No!" He watched helplessly as the group of hard-eyed bruisers surrounded the boy. He had to do something! Looking around desperately, he saw a sign that read, 'Danger! High Voltage!'   
  
Running at a low crouch, Bruce couldn't help but notice that he was still bleeding profusely from his arm. Pausing impatiently, he shakily rewound his already saturated shirt around the jagged gash. Taking off his belt, he next applied a tourniquet immediately above the wound.  
  
"Until I can find a first aid kit," he promised himself. Continuing towards the voltage box, he found himself growing inexplicably tired. "Stop being a wuss, Dr. Wayne," he muttered. "Remember who your wife is--the scourge of the Gotham underworld! She'll be the superhero laughing stock if they find out her husband passed out from a little cut like this."  
  
Bruce looked back at his trail of blood.   
  
"Just a scratch," he added, laughing slightly. Feeling just a little light-headed, he reached the power box and with his good arm managed to open it. He sighed. None of the switches were marked. He had no way of knowing what switch did what.  
  
Spotting a fire station a few meters further down, Bruce suddenly grinned. Striding towards it, he found a fire extinguisher, hose, and axe behind a glass case. Hoping he wouldn't have to use his *good* arm to break it, he was relieved to find the case unlocked. He reached for the axe.  
  
Returning to the voltage box, Bruce grinned. "Dad always said, 'If you don't have the directions, use a bigger hammer!' I guess that's why Alfred always insisted on assembling our Christmas bikes."   
  
His face suddenly fell.  
  
"I promise I'll make it up to you, Alfred. Please, forgive me." With that Bruce suddenly swung and struck the junction box with a powerful blow. The box exploded outwardly in a shower of sparks and flames, and everything went black.  
  
****  
  
Dick could hear the heavy breathing of his pursuers. Their shouts followed in his wake. Seeing the ladder less than two meters from him, he leaped up, his hands out, ready to grasp the sixth rung. Before his fingers could close around his means of escape, he was suddenly grabbed tightly from around the waist.  
  
And the place suddenly plunged into darkness.  
  
"Hey! Let me go!" he shouted, struggling wildly.   
  
"Don't worry, son," a soft, sandpaper voice whispered. "You're safe."  
  
Dick immediately ceased his struggles and looked up at the strangely garbed figure. He could feel himself being swung in a wide arc up, up, and over!  
  
"Batwoman?" he hissed. He next found himself on firm footing, the strong arm no longer around his small waist. He looked around. He was alone. About to run, the 'Voice' spoke from the shadows.  
  
"Stay here," she said. "You'll be safe."  
  
"But Pop--!" Dick began and stopped. He knew he was alone. Eyes narrowing, he tried to get his bearings. He recalled the 'feel' of the angle of swing. Instinctively, he knew that Batwoman had placed him on the highest levels of the catwalks.   
  
The swing had been 'powered' by a definite upward pull, which explained how she'd managed to lift him so high. Her safety line was probably attached to a retractable pulley.  
  
Ignoring Batwoman's orders, Dick started running in the direction he remembered seeing Haly.  
  
****  
  
Feeling slightly woozy, Bruce had an overwhelming desire to curl up on the floor and go to sleep. Knowing he was suffering from loss of blood, Bruce started a running a commentary in his head to keep going.  
  
"Can't stop now, Bruce," he muttered. "Gotta find Dicky...help Babs...save Haly..." He laughed shortly. "Dr. Flab to the rescue," he said sarcastically. "Watch out, criminals. Here I come!"  
  
Stumbling a little from an attack of vertigo, Bruce began edging towards the nearest ladder. Finding it, Bruce slowly climbed down, carefully feeling his way before lowering himself to the next rung.  
  
Reaching the next lower level, Bruce's sense of direction felt a little turned around. Jack was to his left, he thought. No, to his right. Unsure, he chose left and walked shakily in that direction.   
  
Funny, he couldn't feel his feet. That's odd, he thought. The throbbing in his arm was worse, and he felt hot and cold. I don't think that's a good symptom, do you, doc?  
  
Sounds like the patient is going into shock, he diagnosed. I recommend that he immediately lie down, raise his legs, and try to get warm.   
  
Bruce snickered at the image. "Doc Flab to the rescue," he said, falling to his knees. "Bring out the crash cart," he muttered, as he fell over. "The doctor's about to go bye-bye..."  
  
Barely aware of what was happening, the last image Bruce had as darkness consumed him was that of a pair of shoes stopping in front of him.  
  
****  
  
The shouts from below had slowly died out. The gang of thugs were attempting to use 'stealth' to find her. She smirked. More like the proverbial elephants in a China shop, she thought.  
  
"Of course, not everyone has the latest in WayneTech night vision technology at their disposal," Batwoman added smugly. The optics that she'd had built into her cowl helped her see better in the dark than her namesake, the Bat.  
  
Adjusting the optics to filter out the heat being generated by the corrosive acid bath below, Batwoman saw Haly hanging helplessly waiting to die. The next instant, Haly's scream announced the start of his slow torturous descent.  
  
Chin jutted in a determined line, Batwoman pulled out a grappling gun. As she was about to fire, the place rang suddenly with the sound of Jack's laugh over the intercom.  
  
"Attention, K-Mart shoppers!" Jack announced. "Our blue light special--!"  
  
Ignoring the homicidal drug runner, Batwoman swooped across the intervening space towards the hysterically screaming Haly.   
  
A sudden flashlight beam caught her attention. Bruce! Held in a frozen tableau by the harsh shaft of light, he was bleeding and barely conscious.  
  
"What's it going to be, Caped Chicky?" Jack yelled. "The fat and hardly innocent circus owner? Or the wealthy, philanthropist doctor? You can't save both!" A gun suddenly appeared in the light beam, aimed directly between Bruce's eyes.   
  
Batwoman suddenly found herself in an untenable position. If she saved Haly, Jack would kill Bruce. If she saved Bruce, Haly died. With only a split second to reach a fateful decision, a pint-sized guardian angel took the matter out of her hands.   
  
****  
  
"Oh, no you don't!" Dick muttered. Not stopping to think about the extreme danger about what he was going to do, Dick climbed onto the catwalk's railing and leaped. Flying with the sureness of one born to the trapeze, Dick cleared the intervening space towards the bright beam of light, and grabbing a solid handhold, swung up and over onto the catwalk, while kicking out with all his power.  
  
He connected firmly with Jack's gun hand, knocking the weapon out of the killer's grip. It went flying out into the dark, landing somewhere farther away with a satisfying clang.   
  
"*No*!" Jack yelled, reaching for something in his jacket pocket. "Haly's a dead man! Y'hear me? A dead man!"   
  
Dick meanwhile spun and kicked out again. This time striking Jack in the midsection.   
  
As Jack doubled over, he held onto the remote control he'd taken out. About to press the cable release, he was suddenly struck again. The kid, he raged! It was the kid again! Just like last time at Oxie's Bar.  
  
"Listen, you little twerp--!" Kicked in the chin, Jack went flying back. "If you don't want your precious 'Pop' to take an acid bath, you'd better not move! I've got the control box here and--!"  
  
The next thing he knew, a torrent of kicks and jabs were raining on him nonstop. To his all-consuming rage, he lost his grip on the remote control and it went flying over the railing.  
  
"*No*!" he yelled, furious. "I'll kill you, you little monster! Y'hear? I'm gonna kill you! And when I'm done with you, I'll get your friends! The Waynes are dead, now. I'll kill everyone--everybody who means *anything* to you! They're all dead--you've killed them! You hear me, kid! Their deaths are on *you*!"  
  
As he'd spoken, Jack had advanced threateningly towards Dick. Haly, Batwoman, Bruce, the drug shipment, all forgotten. His fury had focused entirely on this one small boy. Everything was his fault.  
  
If Zucco hadn't been forced to kill his parents, everything would be like it had always been.  
  
If the brat's parents hadn't died, then Wayne wouldn't have taken him in.  
  
If Wayne hadn't taken in the snively-nosed kid, then Batwoman would never have become involved in this.  
  
It was all the kid's fault, and once Jack got rid of him, then he'd start on everyone who'd helped him.   
  
The sound of a weapon's firing bolt being pulled back stopped his advance.  
  
"Funny," a weak voice rasped. "But I don't *feel* like a dead man."  
  
"Bruce!" Dick yelled relieved.  
  
"Get over here next to me, son," Bruce ordered. Dick complied. He crouched down next to Bruce, throwing his arms around him, supporting his friend's shoulders.  
  
"Napier, don't move," Bruce added. "I've never fired one of these things in anger before, but I assure you, if you make one move towards this boy, I'll happily make an exception."  
  
Jack laughed, a loud, belly laugh. "This is too much!" he gasped between laughs. "Gotham City's most famous pacifist is pointing a gun at me!" He doubled over helplessly.  
  
"Doc, please," he said, holding out his hand. "Hand me that thing before you hurt yourself." He started walking towards them. "You know you won't pull that trigger. I've done my homework. I *know* what kind of man you are. I *know* you wouldn't hurt a fly."   
  
As he spoke, Jack continued taking measured steps towards Bruce and Dick.  
  
"Bruce--?" Dick asked nervously. He didn't like the ugly look on Jack's face. Even in the almost impenetrable gloom, he could see that Jack looked crazy.  
  
"Go, Dicky!" Bruce ordered. "Run, son. Get away, now!"  
  
"*No*!" Dick cried. "You're hurt! I won't leave you!"   
  
Still holding the gun on Jack, Bruce warned him again. "I won't tell you again, Napier. Stop! Now! Stop, or I'll shoot!"  
  
With a sneer permanently planted on his face, Jack ignored the threat. When he was three feet from them, Bruce finally pulled the trigger!  
  
****  
  
Batwoman grabbed Haly, secured him to her safety line, and cut the cable that held him suspended over the boiling cauldron. Hauling him to a safety, she quickly untied him and urged him to remain hidden.  
  
"Please...don't let 'im kill me," Haly begged. "He's crazy!"   
  
"Yes, he is," she said coldly. "Yet you worked with both him and Zucco. You knew what they were. But you still got involved with them. And now the Graysons are dead, their son's been orphaned, and a lot of others may die because of the drugs they're planning to flood the market with."  
  
"I didn't know!" Haly protested. "I swear!"   
  
"Tell it to the judge, Haly. You've been distributing stolen merchandise for Zucco's organization for almost fifteen years. I've found enough evidence to send you away for a very long time. You're not a young man any more, Haly. With what I've got on you--and you can bet that the DA's office has the same information--you'll probably die of old age in Blackgate long before your sentence runs out."  
  
"No," Haly begged. "It's not true! I swear!" But his eyes told Batwoman that he knew it was the beginning of the end for him.   
  
"Haly, I might've saved your miserable life, but you're going to pay back--dearly! You're testifying against Napier and his organization--!"  
  
"No! They'll kill me!" he cried.  
  
"They'll kill you anyway, because they'll assume you cooperated with the cops even if you didn't. Think about it. The authorities can offer you protection, but it comes with a price--your testimony."   
  
Batwoman glared at the profusely sweating man. It was hard to believe that either she or Bruce ever thought him worthy of adopting Dick. Haly's look of indecision and abject fear gave way to reluctant acceptance. He finally nodded his understanding.   
  
"I've radioed the GCPD. They'll be arriving here soon. If you want to live, you'll stay put until their arrival. Understand?"  
  
Haly nodded tiredly, his whole body exuding a sense of hopeless surrender.  
  
"Good," Batwoman said curtly. "You have an appointment first thing in the morning with the district attorney's office."  
  
"But--!"  
  
Haly no chance to voice any further protests because his 'savior' was already gone.  
  
****  
  
Chapter Nine  
  
Bruce squeezed the trigger. He squeezed again. And again.  
  
Nothing. No sharp report. No flashbang.  
  
Just Jack's maniacal laughter. Jack doubling over helplessly pointing his finger at the helpless man and boy.  
  
"What's the matter, Doc?" Jack laughed. "Didn't your daddy ever teach you to remove the safety first?"  
  
The next moment was one of those split seconds where time seems to stop...  
  
Jack dived towards them, reaching for the useless gun.   
  
Bruce desperately tried to release the safety on the unfamiliar weapon.   
  
Dick leaped and began to spin in midair, kicking out with all the power and force of his athletic body.  
  
Unseen, a dark figure swooped down, landing behind the murderous gangster...  
  
Time returned to its normal flow. Bruce frantically threw the weapon at Jack's head in a final desperate move. Jack ducked the throw easily, and then turned his attention to the boy. Taking a grazing kick to the head, Jack somehow managed to grab the boy and haul him to him.  
  
"Bruce, help!" Dick cried out. Jack was slowly backing up, making his way towards the railing.  
  
"I think it's time for your bath, kid," Jack growled. Raising Dick over the railing, Jack paused dramatically. "Don't forget to scrub behind the ears!"  
  
"Dicky!" Bruce yelled, grabbing onto the railing to try to reach the boy.   
  
Jack let go.  
  
****  
  
As Dick felt gravity take over, a lifetime's worth of training took over. Instinctively righting himself, Dick quickly flipped again and reached out for a handhold. The railings were inches away from his fingers!  
  
Somersaulting once more, Dick again tried to reach for a handhold. He was almost on the vat of acid. Closing his eyes, he sent a silent prayer to his parents.  
  
Inches from certain death, he was suddenly jerked to a halt. He could feel the heat below him begin to recede. He was going up! Grabbing the safety line that held him firmly in place around the waist, Dick knew instantly who'd saved him.  
  
"Batwoman!" he whispered.  
  
****  
  
"I'll kill you!" Bruce cried. Thinking that Dick had just been murdered, he threw himself at Jack, consumed by white-hot rage.  
  
Mocking the weak and injured doctor, Jack goaded Bruce. When Bruce came at him, Jack easily fended off his attack.   
  
But the usually gentle Bruce wouldn't be put off. Looking up the hateful mocking visage of the child killer, Bruce suddenly felt himself go cold. His mind abruptly cleared of all extraneous thought and emotion. Bruce methodically removed his tourniquet, ignoring the sharp-edged agony from the blood flow.  
  
For what he was about to do, Bruce needed the use of both arms.  
  
Calmly finding his center, calling forth the years of martial arts training he'd shared with Barbara, Bruce put his pain aside. Standing, he assumed a defensive posture and began to stalk the predator. Testing his injured arm, Bruce was satisfied that he could control it.  
  
"Whoa!" Jack sneered. "What do we have here? A Kung Fu master, no doubt." He giggled in delight. "Well, bring it on, Kemo Sabi," he added. "Or should I say, Grasshopper?"  
  
It was the last thing he said. Bruce whirled and kicked, instantly connecting with a headshot. This man was worse than Zucco had ever been. He was an animal--a predator who preyed on small children. And Bruce had spent a lifetime being an advocate of children.  
  
He'd dedicated his life to fighting the diseases that plagued childhood, from small scrapes to cancer.  
  
'Being a child shouldn't hurt' was more than a slogan to Bruce. It was his personal life's mission.  
  
And this monster had just killed the one child who'd touched him more than all the thousands of others who'd crossed his life.  
  
As Bruce kicked, spun, and jabbed, he thought of his bewilderment over Barbara's secret life. His philosophy of compassion to all mankind had been based largely on the example set by his father.  
  
When seeking justice, his father used to say, always remember that even the most violent criminals were once babies in diapers. That they'd had a mother who'd loved them, nursed them, and changed them. Whatever happened in their lives to turn them to crime, his father insisted that Bruce always remember that justice should take into consideration the baby who became lost somewhere. To remember the baby who lost his dreams when life began to knock him down.  
  
Bruce had honestly always tried to follow his father's words. He'd even forgiven Dent for murdering his parents because he knew that the former friend and DA hadn't been responsible for his actions.  
  
But Jack? Jack had never been a baby. In Bruce's eyes, Jack had been born evil. If he'd even been born of woman. Perhaps he wasn't even human. He was a monster. Not because someone had made him this way, but because he enjoyed being this way.  
  
And he was laughing. Again. That annoying, ear-piercing maniacal laughter. Bruce wanted to grab him by the throat and just pull out his lungs.  
  
"Come on, Doc!" Jack giggled. "Can't you take a joke?" At Bruce's look, Jack began backing off nervously. "H-He had it coming, Doc. He was a pest. He ruined everything! What else could I do? He made me do it!" Jack began to look around in desperation for something to help him. It was too dark to see much of anything, however. As he slowly backed away from Bruce, his foot struck pay dirt.  
  
Grinning suddenly, he leaned down and picked up the gun.  
  
"Oops! Look what I found!" he laughed pointing at Bruce. Bruce froze in his tracks. "Oh, but wait! Mustn't forget that pesky safety, huh?" His face hardening, Jack aimed at Bruce and with a wide grin, fired.  
  
****  
  
Seeing that Bruce was in trouble, Batwoman made sure that Dick was safe before she turned to him.  
  
When Jack raised the gun, she was located a level above them and to the right. Not taking the time to shoot out a jump line, she dived, grabbed the catwalk immediately above them, used it as leverage and kicked out at Jack just as the gun went off.  
  
Not hesitating, Batwoman attacked furiously. Bruce was bleeding and growing weaker. His exertions of moments before hadn't helped matters, either. Jack was the most dangerous man she'd faced since Two-Face. And she'd already allowed too many members of her family to be killed by a madman.  
  
She wouldn't lose Bruce, too.  
  
Spinning at mach speed, she kicked again. Jack went flying backwards, his momentum carrying him over the railing.  
  
He screamed as he went over, desperately grabbing for a handhold.  
  
Batwoman and Bruce both ran and reached out for him. Batwoman got to him first. She grasped him firmly by the wrist and began to pull.   
  
"Hold on," she muttered. Bruce leaned over to help her, but was hit by a sudden dizzy spell. Batwoman saw that his arm was saturated with his own blood. As the spell passed, he reached over to lend his strength to hers, when to both their horror Jack started slipping out of her grasp.  
  
"Bruce, reach into my belt. There's a safety hook. Snap it to his belt!"  
  
Bruce nodded and hurried to do as told. Yanking at the hook, he saw that it was attached to a thin wire. Pulling out enough to reach Jack's belt, he leaned forward and was about to secure it, when Jack inexplicably began giggling. He next surprised both Bruce and Batwoman by grabbing Bruce by the wrist and trying to pull him overboard.  
  
"Napier! Are you crazy?" Bruce cried. "We're trying to save you!"  
  
"Well, I'm trying to *kill you*!" Jack laughed.  
  
Batwoman's concentration on keeping Jack secure slipped momentarily when she saw Bruce in sudden jeopardy.  
  
"Napier, let him go!" she growled. "Or I swear I'll release you!"  
  
Jack laughed. "I double dare you, Batchick!" he taunted, pulling at Bruce. "If I fall, Brucie boy goes with me!"   
  
Jack's unexpected movement caused Batwoman's grip to slip suddenly. Jack's smirk changed to naked fear. The next second, Batwoman was holding empty air and all that was keeping Jack from the acid bath below, was his desperate hold on Bruce's wrist.  
  
"Help me, Doc," he whimpered.   
  
But Bruce was too weak to hold onto the killer, and at this moment he was hit by another wave of vertigo and any hope left to the insane killer was gone.  
  
"Doc! Please, don't let go--!" Bruce's weak fingers relaxed and simultaneously, Jack's own grip slipped.  
  
"*No*!" he cried as he fell into the roiling, churning death below.  
  
****  
  
Batwoman watched horrified as Jack disappeared into the acid vat. A movement immediately below her caught her attention. Bruce! He was hanging precariously over the edge. Quickly dragging him to safety, she patted his cheek lightly.  
  
"Bruce?" she whispered urgently. "Bruce? Please, wake up--!"  
  
"Uhnnnn...?" Bruce muttered. "Babs?"  
  
"Yes, sweetheart," she murmured. "I'm here."  
  
"I wasn't able to save him," he said quietly. And then with a ragged sob, "I wasn't able to save him."  
  
"It wasn't your fault, Bruce," she soothed. "He tried to kill you. Kill us all."  
  
"No, Dicky..." Bruce said, shaking his head. "I wasn't able to save him...Babs, I loved him so much...wanted to adopt him...so small...needed me." Bruce choked on his words. "I needed him, too."  
  
"Darling, don't--!" Batwoman replied, hugging him to her. She kissed him tenderly on the forehead. "Dicky's fine. He's fine."  
  
Bruce's guilt-ridden sobs stopped. He slowly opened his eyes and looked up at her in wonder. "He's all right?" Batwoman nodded. "You?" he asked.  
  
Shrugging slightly, she nodded again.  
  
A smile half-smile began to play on his lips. A light came into his eyes--love mixed with respect and something new, open admiration.  
  
"Have I told you lately how much I love you?" he asked.  
  
Batwoman returned his smile and nodded. "I think you told me pretty convincingly last night--in bed." Her smile broadened at his blush. She gently caressed his face, tracing the strong outline of his jaw.  
  
"That's nice to know," he said slyly. Holding her eyes, he added, "A man likes to know that after a few years of marriage, he can still convince his wife how much he loves her--in bed."  
  
It was Batwoman's turn to blush. He smiled as a slow flush crept up the unexposed part of her face. Being a redhead, she'd always colored easily.  
  
"I didn't know superheroes blushed," Bruce teased.  
  
"This superhero does," she admitted wryly.  
  
"Did you know that you're my hero?" he asked.  
  
"Did you know that you've always been mine?"  
  
"I asked you first," he replied.  
  
"But you were my hero first," she shot back.  
  
"Was not," he denied with a smile.  
  
"Was too," she insisted, leaning down. He reached for her and the next moment gave himself willingly to her kiss.  
  
Lost in his wife's arms, Bruce never even noticed when they'd cleared the skylights and landed on the roof. The first indication he had that he was no longer on the catwalk was when he felt someone pulling at him from below.  
  
"Aw, will you guys cut it out? You're just like my Mommy and Daddy! *Mush*!"   
  
Batwoman and Bruce smiled down at the small boy. He was looking up them, his upturned face fixing them with a wide smile. Bruce reached tentatively for Dick and the boy instantly threw his arms around his waist.  
  
Batwoman pulled back her cowl and gazed at her husband, an unspoken message passing between them. His face light with a joyous smile, Bruce pulled her in for a brief, passionate kiss and then bent down, eye-level to Dick.  
  
"Dicky...son, I know that this might be too soon, and that maybe you'd prefer to go with Mr. Haly, but please would you--*could* you?--ever find it in your heart to come live with us? To be *our* little boy? Our son?"  
  
Dick slowly raised his eyes to look at both Bruce and Barbara with amazement.  
  
"Y-your little boy?" he asked, his surprise evident. "Y-you mean, you *want* me to stay with you?"  
  
"Son, please, I know it might be too soon, but--?"  
  
"Yes!" Dick yelled happily, throwing his arms around Bruce's neck. "I love you, Bruce!" Soon, both man and boy were crying in each other's arms, and within moments, they were both enveloped in the warm folds of Batwoman's cape.  
  
"Dicky," Bruce managed. "Son, you've just made us both the happiest people in the whole world!"  
  
"The GCPD is on the way," Barbara said. "Let's go home."  
  
****  
  
Chapter Ten  
  
Dick flew down the banister.   
  
"*Geronimo*!" he cried with boyish exuberance. Since coming to live at Wayne Manor these past few weeks, he'd discovered a few pleasures: the giant oak overhanging his balcony, the Batcave's training room (with all the neat and ultra-cool stuff in it), and best of all--the well-polished, winding banister.  
  
Alfred closed his eyes in long-suffering silence. He waited at the bottom of the elegant staircase, child-sized overcoat draped neatly across one arm, a child-sized tie and child-sized suit jacket held in hand.  
  
"Master Dick," Alfred began, pausing momentarily as Dick finished his daily aircraft carrier landing with a spectacular somersault, landing with a flourish.  
  
"And he *sticks* the landing, ladies and gentlemen!" Dick cried out loud.  
  
Alfred's lips twitched ever so slightly, but being the experienced valet that he was, the momentary lapse was not witnessed by his young charge.  
  
"That was the best one ever, Alfred!" Dick bragged.  
  
"A gentleman does not brag, Master Dick," Alfred chastised. "A gentleman merely does what he does and gains satisfaction in the doing."  
  
Dick stared at him blankly, clearly not understanding. Alfred waited a beat and then continued with his duties.  
  
"Your tie, young sir--" he began.  
  
"--Aw, no! Alfred not a tie!" Dick protested.  
  
"Your best jacket--" Alfred holding up the navy blue jacket.  
  
"--A jacket, too?" Dick's blue eyes cried at the injustice.  
  
"Quite. Step forward," Alfred commanded. "Quick march!" Dick slumped, head down over to his master torturer.  
  
"I don't see why I have to wear an ol' tie, anyway," he grumbled.   
  
"You will be appearing in Family Court at midmorning, young sir. Shortly thereafter you shall be lunching with Master Bruce and Miss Barbara at the Skyline Restaurant. A gentleman is required to wear a jacket and tie for both occasions."   
  
"Well, why can't we eat at MacDonald's?" Dick asked. "We don't need to wear a coat and tie *there*!"  
  
"That is correct, Master Dick. I hear that nouveau scruffy is the going style there. However, as long as I am in the employ of the Wayne household, no child under my charge will ever 'chow down' on any dead meat served by a fast-food chain."  
  
"Oh." Dick didn't know what else to say. Alfred was here to stay and that was final. The dignified gentleman made that decision weeks ago, and no one in Wayne Manor dared say or do anything that might possibly change his mind.   
  
As Dick allowed Alfred to dress him and properly knot his tie, he recalled that terrible night when they'd all three returned from Ace Chemicals--with Bruce bleeding and unconscious.  
  
****  
  
Dick was squeezed at an uncomfortable angle on the passenger side between Bruce and the door. He was hugging Bruce to him, his cheek resting lightly on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce's eyes were closed and his breathing, low and shallow.   
  
Dick's fright showed in his wide eyes and pale face. Please, don't die, he begged silently, the tears threatening. Please, God, don't let him die.  
  
"Please, don't let him die."  
  
"I'll do my best, Dicky," Batwoman promised. Dick looked up at her, startled. He hadn't known that he'd spoken out loud.  
  
"He said he wants to be my new dad," Dick said in a low voice. "He can't die." The tears began to flow freely now. A heavily gauntleted hand gently stroked his hair.  
  
"I love him, too, Dicky," Batwoman said quietly. Dick nodded wordlessly, his eyes closed...  
  
Alfred and Doc Leslie were waiting for them as they roared into the gigantic cave. The strange sights and mysterious equipment assaulted the small boy's senses as he climbed out of the sleek, long car.  
  
Dick was shunted aside and then ignored as all three adults quickly began to work on Bruce.   
  
"He's lost a lot of blood!" Babs reported curtly.  
  
"Let's get him on the table!" Leslie said sharply.  
  
"I cannot understand how two seemingly, intelligent, reasonable adults should choose to such foolish nocturnal stunts--!"  
  
"Alfred, please!" Leslie interrupted. "There's no time for that! I need you to assist! He might lose the arm."  
  
Feeling his stomach knotting in fear, and not knowing where he was or what to do, Dick returned to the car to wait. There, he curled up on the passenger side, and clutched his stomach, trying to keep his terror inside. He squeezed his eyes shut and began to recite his multiplication tables.   
  
"One times is one. One times two is two. One times three is three..."  
  
He wouldn't think about losing Bruce...  
  
"...Nine times six is fifty-four. Please, don't die..." he whispered fiercely. "No, you made me lose my place, doofus! Where was I? Nine times seven is sixty-two--no!--nine times seven is sixty--uh...sixty..."  
  
The tears came of their own volition. "Why can't I remember? Please, why can't I remember? Nine times seven is--Please, don't die, Bruce. Please...!"  
  
Later, Dick had a vague sensation of being lifted in gentle arms and being carried. They'd felt like 'mommy' arms--gentle, yet strong. 'Daddy' arms were different. Strong, yet gentle.  
  
But these were definitely 'mommy' arms. The soothing memory of being carried to bed by his mother brought Dick comfort. Sadly, he murmured in his sleep. "Mommy...I missed you. Why did you go away?" As he felt himself being tucked away, he added, sleepily, "I love you, Mommy..."  
  
He felt warm, soft kiss on his forehead, and as he drifted off, he heard a soft voice reply, "I love you too, Dicky..."  
  
The next morning, he woke to a subdued household. Dressing quickly, he slipped on his house shoes and hurried down the hall towards the Master bedroom. Unsure on whether he should knock, Dick quietly turned the knob and looked in.  
  
The room's stillness was emphasized by the stillness of the form lying on the bed--Bruce. Dick felt a heavy weight suddenly lift from his shoulders. Bruce was still alive! He didn't die last night. Dick noticed that Bruce's arm and shoulder were heavily bandaged, and he looked pale, but he was alive.  
  
Excitedly, he crossed the room to stand next to Bruce's bedside. Carefully, so as not to disturb the sleeping man, Dick leaned, half-on/half-off, the edge of the bed, never taking his eyes off him. Chin in hand Dick decided to play a waiting game until Bruce opened his eyes...  
  
Dick held his breath as the dark lids fluttered open. He smiled at the slightly confused stare that Bruce gave him. The painkillers and other drugs in his system were making awareness return slowly.  
  
"Hi," Dick said quietly. Bruce turned to him, taking a moment to focus. Finally, the good doctor's eyes softened and he returned Dick's smile.  
  
"Hi, yourself," he managed. Dick quickly offered him water, holding the straw out for him. Bruce looked at it momentarily as if he didn't know what to do with it, then he took a sip.  
  
"You've got a good bedside manner, Dr. Grayson," he whispered. Dick beamed at the compliment. Bruce gave him a half-smile. He indicated the side of the bed next to him. "Come on, join me."  
  
Dick eagerly complied. Mindful of Bruce's injured he climbed on and scooted next to him. Wanting to be as near to Bruce as possible, he carefully laid his head on Bruce's chest and hugged him closely. He felt Bruce's good arm settle gently around him.  
  
Soon, the only sound from the Master Bedroom was the soothing, steady breathing from the new father and son.  
  
****  
  
Dick woke to the quiet clink of glasses and silverware. He lay without moving watching Alfred's efficient movements.  
  
"Are you hungry, young sir?"  
  
Dick's eyes widened. The sound of an amused rumble from above him caused him to sit up. He glanced at Bruce, who was smiling gently.  
  
"Don't worry, Dicky. He's been doing that to me for as long as I can remember. I still don't know how he does it."  
  
Alfred turned to them both. "Chocolate chip pancakes for the young master, clear broth for you, sir."  
  
Bruce groaned. At Alfred's sharp look of rebuke, Bruce swallowed his protest. "Thank you very much, Alfred," he sing-songed. "I know that anything you fix will be excellent. Even clear broth." He grimaced in punctuation.  
  
Alfred raised a single eyebrow, the only sign of amusement. Bruce smiled in return, and then abruptly dropped his eyes.  
  
"Alfred, I was out of line last night. You have every right to be angry with me. Please, can you forgive me for being such a jerk? I promise to never come between you or any other member of the family again. Please?"  
  
Dick watched, fascinated as Bruce looked pleadingly at Alfred, obviously holding his breath, while Alfred paused what he was doing and held his employer's eyes.  
  
"Master Bruce, I've looked after you since the day you were born. I've treated your childhood scrapes and fevers. I've spanked you when you were a brat, and held you when you had nightmares. I stood by you when you buried your poor parents."   
  
He walked up to Bruce, holding his hand out to him. Bruce took it in his good one.  
  
"I promised your parents years ago to watch out for you and Miss Barbara. I feel that I have done this."  
  
Bruce dropped his eyes in shame. "I'm so sorry, Alfred. I deserve anything you do to me, but please don't leave us. Wayne Manor is your home. You've never been just an employee. You know that. You're my best friend and second father."  
  
Alfred smiled gently. "Master Bruce, I assure that I don't stay in your employ because of a promise I've made to your parents. I stay, Master Bruce, because I've loved you since the day I first laid eyes on you and held you in my arms."  
  
Eyes shining with unshed tears Alfred squeezed Bruce's good hand. "And you shall undoubtedly learn shortly, one unfortunate side-effect of loving a child as one's own is that that child may on occasion say and do things that one might consider less than sterling."  
  
Bruce had the grace to look abashed at this comment.   
  
"The trick, Master Bruce," Alfred continued, "is to know when to ignore the behavior, and when to exact the proper punishment." He pointed at the clear broth sitting next to the delicious chocolate chip pancakes. "Consider yourself properly punished.   
  
After a moment Bruce gave Alfred a sheepish smile. "Okay, Alfred. I'll take my punishment like a man, and gladly. I won't even beg Dicky here to take pity on me and share."  
  
"You most certainly will not, young man, because I'm going to stay here and personally spoon this completely tasteless concoction down your throat myself."  
  
With an evil glint in his eyes, Alfred began to serve his two charges their breakfast...  
  
****  
  
Dick smiled at the memory as he climbed into the spacious back seat of the Rolls Royce. Settling in, he dutifully put on his seat belt and sat quietly looking out the window on the long drive towards the city. As the beautiful countryside that surrounded Wayne Manor passed by, Dick reflected on the new phase that his life was about to enter...  
  
****  
  
"That'll be all, Maggie," Bruce said. Nodding, Maggie stood and smiled tolerantly. Bruce had been glancing at his watch for the past quarter hour.   
  
"Good luck in court today, Dr. Wayne," she offered quietly. Bruce rewarded her with a smile.  
  
"Thank you, Maggie. I still can't believe it. But thanks to your research on the JDC's bureaucratic foot-dragging when it comes to adoptions, and the fact that the only other person who might have a claim on Dicky is in police custody, Family Court has approved our petition to adopt him."  
  
He walked around his desk and took her hands in his.   
  
"I'll never forget your help, Maggie. And that's a promise."  
  
"Dr. Wayne," Maggie protested. "Please, you've already done more for me and Tom than you can imagine. You saved our baby's life when every other doctor in town said her case was hopeless." Unshed tears threatening to spill she smiled up at him.  
  
"Just think of it as one friend helping another," she added.  
  
They both smiled. It's what Bruce had told her when he'd taken on her baby's case two years ago. When she and her husband protested that they wouldn't be able to afford his fees, Bruce had replied...  
  
****  
  
"Just think of it as one friend helping another."   
  
The young couple looked at him doubtfully, neither comfortable with taking what they considered 'charity,' but their little girl's life was too precious for them to refuse the gift.  
  
"And who says you'll never be able to pay me back?" Bruce asked without looking up. "I understand you're hell on wheels with this stuff--!" He waved vaguely around the unkempt office.  
  
Maggie and Tom exchanged perplexed glances.   
  
"I don't understand, Dr. Wayne," she said tentatively. Bruce looked up distractedly, blowing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. He appeared completely helpless, surrounded by files and paperwork everywhere.  
  
"My office manager quit three weeks ago. Thought it more important to take care of her new twins than me." He gave them a chagrinned look. "Story of my life. I grow to depend on 'em, and they discover they love their babies more. If I don't get a new office manager soon, Doc Leslie said she'll have *Alfred* come in to start keeping my files for me."  
  
"Alfred?" Tom asked.  
  
"Yes...Alfred," Bruce sighed ominously. "It would be like having your mother, your father, and your Marine Corps Drill Instructor all rolled into one." He gave them a self-deprecating smile.   
  
"But enough about my problems. There's a good chance that we'll get your little girl well. The Children's Hospital has been working with some exciting breakthroughs in this type of childhood degenerative disease. With an aggressive gene therapy program, I've got great hopes of success."  
  
"But what does this have to do with Maggie's experience as a secretary?" Tom asked belligerently.  
  
Bruce shrugged. "It's up to you. I can sure use a competent office manager here. Maggie would be my assistant both here at the clinic and at Wayne Enterprises when we finish with your daughter's treatment--"  
  
"Excuse me?" Maggie asked. "I don't understand."  
  
"Well," Bruce mused. "I figure that as long as Caitlin's going to be a patient here, you could fill in a few hours a week helping me stay ahead of the paperwork. Once Caitlin's released from the hospital, you can continue here as my medical records assistant, or you could follow me to my 'other day job' at Wayne Enterprises. You'd be the Executive Assistant to the President and CEO of the company."  
  
He pulled out a Post-It note and scribbled something on it. Holding the young couple's eyes, he pushed it towards them.  
  
Tom and Maggie's eyes popped open at the amount he'd written on it.  
  
"That, of course, doesn't include the full medical coverage for our employees and each member of their family for which you'll be entitled. Or the free, on-site daycare for the school children of working couples." At their wide-eyed expressions, he hurriedly added, "And of course, there's the opportunity for stock options, an annual salary review and cost of living increase. Oh, and we have one of the most progressive retirement plans in the nation."  
  
Bruce shrugged. "It's entirely up to you, of course." His demeanor became pleading. "But please! I really could use someone here. Look at me! I'm drowning in paperwork. And Alfred--you wouldn't wish Alfred on me, would you?"  
  
Maggie looked up at Tom. Her husband was smiling down at her, his eyes giving her his approval. She turned to Bruce...  
  
****  
  
"And you were such a big baby! Alfred's a dear!" Maggie exclaimed.  
  
"Yes, but you didn't know that at the time," he replied. "Besides, Alfred *would've* been my worst nightmare if Leslie had forced him to clean up after me both at home *and* work." Bruce crossed his arms. "You wouldn't have wanted your boss to be dragged out of a staff meeting by the ear would you?"  
  
Maggie laughed at the image and headed out of his office. Pausing she added quietly. "Dicky's a lucky boy, Dr. Wayne. I can't think of anyone who'll make a better dad than the man who's saved the lives of so many babies for so many other mothers and fathers."  
  
At his grateful look, she added teasingly, "And considering how Dicky's already got his new daddy wrapped around his little finger, it's a good thing that Barbara's going to be the new mom. With her training as the assistant district attorney, she's going to be a hell of a disciplinarian!"  
  
Bruce laughed. "Well, I guess someone's gonna have to be, because so far, I sure haven't been able to say 'no' to that kid!"   
  
****  
  
Bruce drove easily through the heavy noontime traffic. Today nothing could happen that would upset him. Today, he would officially become a dad. Stopping at a light, he reflected on how that made him feel.  
  
"Scared to death," he muttered. A honk and annoyed yells from behind him told him that the light had changed. Startled, Bruce put his foot on the accelerator, and promptly killed the engine. He'd released the clutch too soon.  
  
"Hey, Mac! Where'd you learn to drive?"  
  
"Come on, buddy! I ain't getting any younger!"  
  
Embarrassed, Bruce restarted the engine just in time for the light to turn red again. Sighing, he sat at the intersection, stoically taking all the jeers and epithets being thrown at him from the drivers behind him.  
  
"Sheesh! Talk about road rage," he muttered. To drown out the shouts and insults, Bruce turned on the radio. It was already tuned to a classical station. The soothing tones of Vivaldi soon filled the car's interior, and Bruce lost himself in the strains.  
  
The next instant, he was startled back to the present. A frantic woman was banging on his driver's side door. Unable to make out her words, he turned off the music, and barely heard her shouts but it was enough for him to understand her.  
  
"Please! My husband! Help me!"   
  
Without hesitation, Bruce grabbed his medical bag and jumped out of the car. The woman clutched at him by his coat, dragging him with her. As he ran, the same frustrated drivers who'd angrily shouted unprintable names at him earlier doubled their efforts.  
  
"What now?"  
  
"Where're you going, you jerk?"  
  
"That does it! I'm ramming that toy car of his!"  
  
Bruce ignored them and hurried after the woman. She led him to a car stopped at the traffic light about six car lengths behind him.  
  
"My husband," she said. "I think he's having a heart attack!"  
  
Bruce nodded and opening the driver's side door, leaned in and took a pulse. He checked the man's vitals and didn't like what he saw. He immediately opened his bag, took out his cell phone and tossed it to the woman.  
  
"Call 9-1-1!" he ordered. An angry man stomped up to them.  
  
"What the hell's going on here?" he shouted. "I've got deliveries to make!"  
  
"This man's having a heart attack!" Bruce shouted. "I'm a doctor! See if you can clear some of this traffic out of here. Fire Rescue should be coming momentarily!"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, doc," the man stuttered. "Sure thing. Uh, doc? Your car's blocking the intersection I'll have to push it."  
  
Wordlessly, Bruce tossed his car keys. By then he'd started CPR.  
  
"Excuse me! May I help?" a young voice asked from above him.  
  
"Do you have first aid training?" he asked tersely without looking up.  
  
"I'm a doctor, Dr. Wayne, an intern," she answered. "Harleen Quinzel. My friends call me Harley." Bruce glanced up quickly, took note of the attractive blue-eyed blonde, and then looked back down again.  
  
"Are you CPR certified, Ms. Quinzel?" he asked.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Good. Take over!" he ordered. "Ready?"  
  
A pair of hands hurriedly came up close to his.  
  
"Ready," she said calmly. Bruce removed his hands, and she took over without breaking rhythm. As she started the compressions, Bruce quickly began to examine the patient.  
  
"Please, doctor," the victim's wife began. "How is he? How's Frank? Will he be all right?"  
  
"Is he allergic to any medications?" Bruce asked brusquely. The woman shook her head. "Ma'am you'll have give me verbal answers," he said shortly. "I can't examine your husband and watch you1"  
  
"I'm sorry," she said contritely.  
  
They could hear the sirens in the distance. Bruce looked around. There were still too many cars around.  
  
"Will you get these cars moved out of here?" he shouted. Several curious onlookers who'd been milling immediately jumped to get their cars out of the way. Bruce continued getting the victim's medical history from his wife.   
  
He took over the CPR when Harley began to tire. By the time Fire Rescue arrived, they'd gotten a weak pulse. The emergency medical technicians quickly took over, their movements sure and efficient.  
  
The victim's wife came up to Bruce and Harley. "I don't know how to thank you both," she said. "I'll never be able to repay you."  
  
Before Bruce could reply, Harley took the woman's hands in her own, and spoke for them both. "Just think of it as one friend helping another." The woman hugged Harley to her, and then hurried to the ambulance where her husband was being loaded.  
  
Bruce stared at Harley, mouth agape.   
  
"I was on morning rounds during my fourth year at Gotham Children's Hospital," she explained shyly. "I overheard you talking to the parents of a little girl. It changed my whole life. A doctor *should* be a friend to his patients, and not just a pill pusher. I'm specializing in psychiatry, but I'll dedicate my life to always looking on my patients as friends who trust me to take care of them to the best of my ability, rather than a trained specialist who only cares about how they're going to pay me."  
  
Bruce smiled at her and shook her hand. "You have the dedication, Ms. Quinzel," he said. He glanced at his watch. "Look, I'm late! But why don't you come by my office later this week? Say Thursday? We can talk about your course of study and internship! Where are you doing interning, by the way?" He called this over his shoulder as he began hurrying towards his car.  
  
"Arkham Asylum!" she called out to his retreating back.  
  
Bruce nodded and waved distractedly, not really listening. "I'm sorry! Gotta go! Have an important appointment!"   
  
With that Bruce ran to where his car had been moved, jumped in and sped off.  
  
Harley watched with a growing, self-satisfied smirk as his car disappeared into traffic. She held a palm-sized tracking device in her hand. A green icon indicated the location of Bruce's car.   
  
"Oh, we'll each other again, Doc. Of that, you can be very sure..."  
  
****  
  
End of Part 2  
To be continued...  
  



	3. (Part 3)

Summary: Dick is adopted by Bruce and Barbara, but the family's happiness is   
short-lived.  
  
Disclaimer: All characters belong to DC and Time/Warner; this is an original   
story that doesn't intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome.  
  
Copyright December 2000  
  
****  
  
Otherwheres  
By Syl Francis  
  
****  
  
Chapter Eleven  
  
"I hereby declare today--'Dicky's Day'!" Bruce announced, holding his glass up   
in a formal salute.  
  
"Here, here!" Barbara said, holding up her own glass in approval. Blushing at   
all the attention, Dick shyly held his own glass out.  
  
Three wineglasses--two filled with sparkling white wine, the third with milk--  
clinked in a celebratory toast. Bruce smiled over the rim of his glass first at   
Barbara and then at Dick as he took a sip. Dick downed the entire contents of   
his glass at once and slammed it dramatically on the table, rattling the   
silverware and empty plates. A couple of patrons a few tables further down   
turned and glared.  
  
Dick blushed deeply at his faux pas. Bruce instantly downed his own drink and   
slammed his own glass on the table. Dick looked up at him in surprise. Bruce   
gave him a wink.  
  
Dick's eyes lit in delight. "Do it again, Bru--I-I mean..." He paused shyly and   
looked down. "I mean, do it again...Dad." The 'Dad' came out several decibles   
softer. Bruce stared at Dick, unable to get the words out that he felt filling   
him.  
  
At Bruce's stark stare, Dick looked momentarily unsure of himself. "Is-is it   
okay for me to call you 'D-Dad'?"  
  
His chest swelling with emotion, Bruce glanced at Barbara and saw his joy   
reflected on her face.  
  
"C'mere, son," Bruce choked, opening his arms to Dick. Dick ran to Bruce and   
threw his arms around his neck. Bruce pulled back a bit to look Dick straight in   
the eyes. "Dick, I'd be *proud* for you to call me 'Dad.'" Bruce gave Dick a   
tight squeeze, holding him a moment longer. "I love you so much," he whispered   
fiercely.  
  
"I love you, too...Dad," Dick said back. Then on impulse he turned and planted a   
quick kiss on Bruce's cheek. He released his hold and began to return to his   
seat, when he caught Barbara's look.   
  
She'd been watching them, feeling warm inside but also just a bit left out.   
Bruce and Dick had bonded almost from the first and they had every right to be   
happy together. She'd missed so much with her nocturnal Batwoman activities, but   
still--   
  
Barbara recalled the night after Ace Chemicals...  
  
****  
  
She carried Dick to bed that night, and he called her 'Mommy' in his sleep.   
Unsure about the new and strange emotions coursing through her, Barbara sat by   
his bedside until long after the sun began to stream in through the windows. She   
leaned down and kissed him gently on the forehead. Feeling wistful, she left   
him, checked in on Bruce, showered and dressed for work.  
  
As she hurried through breakfast and the morning paper, she received a report   
that the previous night, the GCPD apprehended the final dregs of Zucco's gang at   
Ace Chemicals Company. The reports stated that the men had been found trussed   
and dangling from the ceiling rafters, whimpering about the mysterious 'Bat.'   
  
As she washed down her toast with a sip of her coffee, Barbara suddenly grinned.   
The picture of those hulking brutes, babbling like babies, was enough to make   
her start humming under her breath.   
  
Abruptly, she thought of Haly, recalling that she had an appointment with him   
later that day. Apparently, his near brush with death proved to be the impetus   
he needed to provide State's evidence against Zucco's gang in exchange for   
protection.  
  
Bullock's wry words rang in Barbara's ears. "Haly's been distributing Zucco's   
stolen merchandise cross-country. When he and Zucco had a disagreement, the   
Flying Graysons were killed as a warning. When Zucco died, Jack Napier--a real   
psycho-killer--took over. I'm not a hundred percent sure about the specifics,   
Ms. Gordon, but it looks like Haly has learned the error of his ways and wants   
to come over to the side of the angels. That is, before the scumbags he's been   
dealing with try to get him to meet any *real* angels. Or, in his case, whatever   
the opposite of an angel might be."   
  
Placing her breakfast dishes in the sink, Barbara hurried back upstairs and   
paused outside Bruce's old nursery, checking on Dick once more.  
  
She found the boy restive, tossing in his sleep. Worried, Barbara quietly walked   
in. Unsure about what to do, she simply brushed his hair back with a gentle   
hand. The act seemed to soothe him, and Dick settled back down again.  
  
That was a defining moment for her. Without being aware of it, she'd grown to   
love this little boy as if he were her own.   
  
The next day, she and Bruce flanked Dick on either side during his parents'   
funeral. Dick was very brave through the entire ordeal, until Haly (released   
temporarily for the funeral) stepped up to the podium and delivered a moving   
eulogy.  
  
"Johnny and Mary, I know that you're looking down on us today, no longer trapped   
by the confines of gravity. I know that today you fly with the greatest of ease   
up in heaven. More importantly, I know that you're probably showing those   
Heavenly Hosts a thing or two about what real flying *is*."  
  
As Haly spoke, the band's flute player began to softly play a familiar tune. As   
the flute's eerie notes wafted in the late autumn breeze, Haly movingly spoke   
the words that were seemingly written for the Graysons.  
  
"They flew through the air with the greatest of ease...Mary and Johnny on their   
flying trapeze...their movements were graceful, and daring--oh my!--and our love   
they have taken away..."  
  
As Haly recited the words, the gathering of colorfully dressed circus performers   
slowly began to take up the refrain, humming softly in the background. Soon the   
somber cemetery rang with the mournful strains of the broken-hearted voices   
giving their final send off to their beloved friends.  
  
As if on cue, they began to file out, stopping by Dick and shaking his hand or   
hugging him and giving him a quick farewell kiss.  
  
"We'll miss you, Dicky--"  
  
"Take good care of our little boy--"  
  
"Keep on flying, little Robin--"  
  
Until finally only two were left--Harriman H. (Pop) Haly and his twin brother,   
Harrison H. Haly. In their days the twin Haly brothers had wowed the crowds with   
their high-wire act. When Harrison left the circus, Pop's son, Hamilton, took   
over. Until the fateful day he fell to his death, a result of the illegal drugs   
in his system.   
  
Now the police were waiting at a respectful distance down the hill for Pop Haly.   
Harrison had agreed to take over the family business indefinitely. Clapping his   
hand on his brother's shoulders, Harrison stepped back, allowing Pop to say his   
final goodbyes in private.  
  
Head downcast, Pop walked up to Dick.   
  
"I know that there's no reason for you to ever forgive me, Dicky," he said   
softly. "And I understand. I just wanted to say, thank you, for letting me speak   
today." He crouched until he was eye-level with Dick. Hesitantly, Pop laid his   
hands gently on Dick's small shoulders and held him at arms' length.  
  
"Dicky, the Flying the Graysons were the best. You're the only remaining   
Grayson--flying is in your blood. Mary used to call you her little Robin. Dicky,   
don't ever let 'em clip your wings, son. You were born to fly--remember that."  
  
Dick nodded wordlessly, too overcome with emotion to articulate what he wanted   
to say. As he watched Haly and his brother slowly make their way to the waiting   
police car, Dick finally whispered, "I'll try to remember, Pop. I promise..."  
  
As the weeks passed, Barbara's growing love for Dick swelled within her. She   
found herself anticipating his eager visits to the Batcave in the early evenings   
before she went out on her nightly sojourns. When Bruce joined in, the nightly   
visits became their family time together.   
  
Soon, Bruce and Dick began to assist her. Bruce's keen intellect and giftedness   
for spotting the unusual in the mundane became critical in her investigations.   
And Dick proved to be a quick study. Soon, he was learning the ins and outs of   
computer searches and with a natural childlike curiosity quickly became an   
asset.  
  
Sometimes instead of working, Barbara instead watched Dick and Bruce sparring   
playfully on the equipment. Dick's natural athletic grace took her breath away.   
Watching his incredible moves, she admitted privately that he had Batwoman beat   
by a long shot.   
  
And Bruce--as he began to regain full use of his arm, he used his time with Dick   
as part of his rehabilitation. He lifted weights, worked out on the apparatuses,   
and quickly began to chase after Dick across the dizzying heights of the   
Batcave. At any given moment, the boys' accompanying Tarzan yells and laughter   
could break Batwoman's concentration.  
  
However, Barbara and Alfred both put their foot down when Bruce attempted to   
learn the trapeze.  
  
Before she knew it, Barbara had fallen in love with the boy. She realized it as   
she watched him fly from one apparatus to another without breaking rhythm. His   
concentration absolute as he went through his paces, Dick's bubbling laughter   
nevertheless communicated his thorough enjoyment while he played in his   
element...   
  
****  
  
Coming back to the present, Barbara felt her heart ache as she watched Dick and   
Bruce, yearning to once again hear that special word--'Mommy.'  
  
Dick stood next to Bruce looking shyly at her. Barbara smiled tentatively at   
first and then openly. Dick returned her smile. As one they reached out for each   
other.  
  
"I love you, too, munchkin," she declared. Dick giggled.  
  
"You sure are pretty," he said sounding awed. He turned and looked proudly at   
Bruce. "My Mom's the prettiest girl in the whole world, isn't she, Dad?"   
  
Dad winked at Barbara. "She sure is, son. Just remember though. She's *my*   
girl."  
  
"Uh-uh," Dick said, shaking his head and hugging Barbara harder. "She's *my*   
girl, now."  
  
"Is *not*!" Bruce protested, laughing.  
  
"Is *too*!" Dick said. Turning to Barbara abruptly, he kissed her on the cheek.   
"Love you, Mom!"  
  
"Tell you what, son," Bruce said conspiratorially. "Why don't we agree to share   
her? She can be *our* girl! Until you can find your own, okay? Deal?" Dick gave   
a single emphatic nod, and the two men solemnly shook on it.  
  
At this moment their waiter appeared with dessert samplings. Soon, Dick and   
Bruce were plowing into identical chocolate swirl ice cream sundaes, while   
Barbara settled for a more modest single scoop of French vanilla. To Barbara's   
infinite embarrassment the two men in her life began to play a dangerous game of   
aerial dogfighting with spoonfuls of ice cream.  
  
First Dick scooped a spoonful, and then making jet-engine noises 'flew' an   
attack pattern at Bruce, who unsurprisingly, was mirroring Dick's movements and   
silly buzzing sounds.  
  
Barbara simply shook her head and rolled her eyes. If this was an example of   
what was to come, then she and Alfred were going to have their hands full at   
every mealtime. Watching them both open their mouths simultaneously and reach   
across the table to plunk their own spoonfuls into the other's mouth, Barbara   
laughed throatily.  
  
Abruptly, she felt a wave of nausea rush through her, accompanied by a slight   
attack of vertigo. Barbara closed her eyes against the unexpected feeling. It   
was gone within seconds. When it finally passed, she noticed a change in the   
atmosphere in the restaurant.  
  
Looking around, she heard delighted laughter begin to spread amongst the other   
diners. Soon, she picked up the definitive sounds of a circus calliope, only   
tinnier--almost toy-like. At Dick's whoop of surprise, she turned to look   
towards one of the exits.   
  
"Look! It's the circus parade!" Dick cried, pointing excitedly. Coming towards   
them in jerky, mechanical moves was a miniature train of marching, circus toys.   
The red-coated ringmaster led them. He was followed by the lions' cage, several   
brightly garbed clowns performing somersaults, and an elephant pulling a   
miniature calliope.  
  
"Elinore!" Dick was beside himself with excitement. "Please? May I?" he asked,   
his whole being pleading.  
  
Bruce nodded his permission. Even such a small act gave him a warm feeling. From   
now on this boy's well-being and happiness would be his and Barbara's   
responsibility. Watching Dick run delightedly from one mechanical toy to the   
next, Bruce sat back enjoying his son's joy. Dick expertly executed a handstand   
and began walking next to the toy elephant on his hands.  
  
The other restaurant patrons clapped in approval.  
  
"Babs, that was a great idea. I wish I'd thought of it. Look at him. He's--"  
  
"Bruce, what are you talking about? Didn't *you* arrange this?"  
  
Bruce shook his head. "No, I thought *you* did."   
  
The new parents stared at each other momentarily nonplussed. "Alfred?" Barbara   
asked. Bruce shrugged, shaking his head.  
  
"He'd tell me. I'm sure of it." Bruce spotted their waiter who was standing to   
the side, smiling and enjoying the spectacle along with everyone else. Bruce   
called him over. "Excuse me. Do you know who arranged this?" Bruce asked. "My   
wife and I would like to thank them personally."  
  
The waiter shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, I've no idea. I can ask the manager   
if you wish."  
  
Bruce nodded. "I'd appreciate that, please," he said.  
  
At that moment, the parade came to a halt. Dick knelt down next to the elephant   
and was about to pick it up, when Barbara suddenly jumped to her feet and   
started running towards him.  
  
"*NO*, Dicky! Don't touch it!"  
  
Startled, by Barbara's sharp tone, Dick fell back. Simultaneously, the   
mechanical figures suddenly clicked, and their outer shells, little more than   
facades, fell off. In their places now stood a couple dozen black spheres with   
the word 'BOMB' written clearly across them.  
  
Gasping, Dick began scooting backwards. Abruptly, he felt himself being lifted--  
by a pair of gentle, yet strong arms--and carried to safety.  
  
"*Babs*!"  
  
"Bruce, get down!" Barbara yelled. "Everybody, take cover! It's a bomb!"   
  
At Barbara's shouted warning, pandemonium took over. The sounds of dishes   
breaking and people running could be heard throughout the dining room. Panicked   
restaurant patrons dove under tables and ran for the exits.   
  
Meanwhile, Bruce saw Barbara shove Dick under a table several feet away from   
him. Ignoring her order he started after them and was startled by a sudden   
hissing sound coming from the 'Bombs.' All of the bombs' fuses had somehow been   
lit and were now burning down!  
  
Still ten feet from his family, Bruce sprinted after them, diving the last   
couple of feet. To his shock, Barbara simply pushed him in after Dick and ran   
back towards the bombs.  
  
"Babs! What are you doing?"  
  
"Stay there!" She called back. "Watch Dicky!"   
  
As she ran, she passed the waiters' station, grabbed a spray bottle filled with   
seltzer water and quickly doused the fuses. Within seconds, the fuses died out.   
The danger had passed.  
  
Barbara heard the quiet stillness that filled the dining room. The collective   
sigh of relief being released by the other diners was almost tangible.  
  
However, before their momentary respite had a chance to turn to cries of   
triumph, a strange new sound began to echo through the restaurant. Standing in   
the middle of the dining room, Barbara searched for the source of the sound.   
After a few moments, she felt a chill down her spine.  
  
Laughter. Eerie, insane laughter.  
  
"It can't be," she murmured. "I saw him fall. He couldn't have lived."  
  
She walked around the dining room, her eyes narrowed, while the high-pitched,   
maniacal sound of Jack's wild, almost girlish laughter grated at her nerves. It   
sounded more insane than ever.  
  
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bruce and Dick emerge from their hiding   
place. Bruce was holding the boy close to him. Dick for his part was looking   
curiously around the place.  
  
"Look! Up there!" Both Barbara and Bruce turned in the direction Dick was   
pointing. Directly overhead, hanging from one of the crystal chandeliers, was   
what looked like a small transmitter.  
  
"Good eyes, munchkin," Barbara said. Bruce ruffled the boy's hair in   
congratulations. Dick for his part felt his chest swell at the compliment from   
his new mom, Batwoman.  
  
Barbara addressed the restaurant at large. "Everybody out! This is police   
business! Please file out calmly and without panicking. Bruce, call the GCPD! We   
need to cordon off the place before we lose any evidence."  
  
Bruce nodded and took out his cell phone. Dick looked up at the transmitter,   
judged the angle of flight needed, and without pausing to ask, leaped onto a   
table, gathered momentum and reached the chandelier with little effort.  
  
"Mom! You want this thing?" he asked.  
  
"No, Dicky. We don't know if it's booby-trapped! It might have fingerprints we   
need."  
  
Dick looked disappointed, but released his hold and easily dropped back down to   
the table. From there, he back flipped to the floor.  
  
Head down, he apologized. "I'm sorry, Mom. I was only trying to help." Barbara   
put her hand on his shoulder.  
  
"I know you were, munchkin. And I appreciate it. While we wait for the GCPD you   
can help me."  
  
"How?" he asked eagerly.  
  
"Just stand aside and watch Mommy work," she said with a smile.   
  
****  
  
Before Barbara could make a move, however, the maniacal laughter again began to   
resound from the transmitter. A female voice, almost that of a little girl,   
spoke over the cackling like a ringmaster announcing the next death-defying act.  
  
"Laaaa-deees and Germs! Brats of all ages! It is the Skyline Restaurant's   
pleasure to pre-*sent* Gotham's newest, most colorful, yet tastefully garbed   
criminal mastermind, that Clown Prince of Crime--Mistah J, himself--the   
*Joker*!"  
  
Bruce suddenly went still. That voice! He'd heard it somewhere before!  
  
Immediately, a ~poof!~ accompanied by a strange, purple and green smoke began to   
hiss from the defused bombs. Cheers and applause filled the room as a hazy   
figure, dressed in similar purple and green colors, coalesced within the smoky   
mist. He was holding both arms spread out in a victory salute, as if accepting   
the shouts as his due.  
  
"Thank you! Thank you! You touch me deeply. Truly you do!" he cried out, and   
then punctuated his acknowledgement with the now familiar, bone-jarring laugh.  
  
"*Gas*!" Barbara shouted.   
  
Grabbing her purse, she suddenly had three re-breather masks in hand. She   
quickly masked, tossed one at Bruce, and placed one over Dick's face.   
  
Bruce stared at her in surprise even as he hurriedly masked. When they were   
teens, he'd tease her that she seemed to carry everything in her shoulder bag   
except her car keys, which she was always misplacing--but gas masks? He shook   
his head.  
  
"The exits, Bruce! Hurry! Take Dicky!"  
  
"But--!" both men protested.  
  
"No time to argue!" Barbara shouted. Her voice had taken on that deeper gravelly   
quality they'd both grown to know as she shoved Dick into Bruce's arms. "Do as I   
say!"   
  
The hologram of the Joker continued talking in the background. "I'm here to   
extend an invitation to that flying female night-rat, Batwoman!" At this point,   
the Joker broke into an off-key rendition of Kenny Rogers,' "Lady."  
  
Barbara groaned. She hated the song.  
  
~Lady, I'm your knight in shining armor, and I love you...~  
  
Bruce cocked his head slightly and gave her an amused grin. He used to tease her   
unmercifully with it, even tortured her on their honeymoon by singing it in the   
shower.   
  
Barbara gave him a sour look in turn. Dick glanced from one to the other   
curiously, clearly not understanding the unspoken communication between his new   
parents.  
  
Becoming suddenly serious, Bruce held her eyes for a moment and nodded curtly,   
hustling Dick out of the dining room. As soon as her loved ones were safely out   
of the way, Barbara picked up a chair and without pausing, heaved it at the vast   
windows that encircled the famous Skyline Restaurant.  
  
The safety glass barely cracked. Reaching into her shoulder bag, Barbara grimly   
took out what appeared to be her favorite lipstick. Unscrewing the bottom, she   
deftly pulled out a small trigger mechanism. Removing the false top end, she   
extended the tube, took out a pellet from her cosmetic case, popped in the tube,   
aimed and fired.  
  
The miniature rocket launcher made short work of the vast expanse of glass,   
shattering it into a thousand pieces. Immediately the atmosphere in the dining   
room began rushing out as it equalized with that outside, thus sucking out the   
remaining gas.  
  
As the gas left, the holographic projection of the purple and green clad white-  
faced figure cleared. Thankfully, he'd stopped his singing, but unfortunately,   
he was now laughing nonstop.   
  
In annoyance, Barbara grabbed an empty dessert plate and in a moment of pique,   
threw it at the transmitter, shattering it on impact. The laughter and the image   
abruptly went out.  
  
"Thank God," she whispered fervently. However, her momentary feeling of triumph   
quickly dissipated.  
  
"Help me..." a low groan pleaded. Barbara hurried to the location of the cry.   
She gasped involuntarily at the sight before her.  
  
"Help me..." her waiter gasped. And then, inexplicably, he began to bubble forth   
with uncontrollable laughter. "Help--BWHAHAHAHAHA--me--BWHAHAHAHA!!!"  
  
The eerie laughter sent a chill down Barbara's spine. But that wasn't the worst   
of it. His expression--it was contorted in a nightmarish painted-on clown face,   
the wide, ghastly grin grimly associated with a corpse's rictus death mask   
permanently stamped on it.  
  
****  
  
As soon as he had Dick safely in the car, Bruce spoke in fast, clipped tones.  
  
"Son, you'll be safe here. I want you to stay down--"  
  
"But where are *you* going--?"  
  
"I'm going back to help your mom," Bruce explained. Impulsively, he gave the boy   
a quick hug and a kiss and then locked him inside. Running back to the emergency   
exit, Bruce took the stairs leading to the top floor restaurant two at time. His   
workouts the previous weeks were beginning to pay off, he noted. Bruce hadn't   
felt this fit since his college days.  
  
"Maybe having Batwoman for a wife is a good thing after all," he muttered.   
"Gotta stay in shape to keep up with her."  
  
****  
  
When the heavy emergency exit slammed behind Bruce, Dick jumped out of the car   
and followed after him. There was no way he was going to be left behind. The   
Flying Graysons had been a family, but more importantly, they had been a team.   
They'd done everything together!  
  
If his new mom and dad were going to be heroes, then he was going follow in   
their footsteps and be a hero, too.  
  
"I wonder if Mom would let me be her partner?" Dick wondered while hurrying up   
the stairs. "Hmmm...I don't think Mom would mind--it's Dad I'll have to   
convince." He smiled suddenly. "I know. I'll ask Alfred. He'll know what to do."   
  
****  
  
Bruce, meanwhile, was having his own visions of heroic grandeur.  
  
"I never thought of myself as a superhero's sidekick. Maybe I'd better start   
thinking of a suitable sidekick name. Quick, Evildoers! Run and hide! Here comes   
Super Pediatric Surgeon waving his formidable grape-flavored lollipops! Beware   
his tongue depressors and the catheters!"  
  
He paused on the twentieth floor to catch his breath. Gulping deep lungfuls of   
air, he collapsed on the landing.  
  
"Right..." ~gasp~ "Some sidekick...can't even climb a mere forty-six flights   
without stopping for air midway..." ~gasp~ "Doctor Flab to the rescue!" With   
that Bruce got wearily to his feet and continued climbing.   
  
"Note to self: Before you make reservations at a restaurant located on the   
forty-sixth floor of the Gotham Mercantile Tower again use the Stair-Master."  
  
****  
  
Bruce pushed through the door into the dining room. He fell on his knees and   
landed in a heap. Through a red haze he heard several gruff male voices   
overhead.  
  
"Hey, Ms. G--this lost pup belong to you?"  
  
"Bullock--?" Bruce gasped.  
  
A pair of scuffed shoes appeared at eye level to him. The laces were knotted in   
several places where they'd obviously been broken.  
  
"How's it going, doc?" Bullock returned pleasantly. "You shouldn't oughta be up   
here, y'know. It being a crime scene and all."  
  
Bruce looked up from his disadvantaged sprawled position on the floor. "H-  
How...you m-make it up here...so fast?"  
  
"Ever hear of an elevator, doc?" Bullock asked. "Great invention. Saves a lot of   
time."  
  
Bruce grimaced, feeling foolish. "Babs...how's my wife--?" he managed.   
Attempting to regain some of his lost dignity, Bruce tried to get back on his   
feet, but his knees gave way once again.  
  
A pair of gentle arms was suddenly encircling him. "Bruce? What are you doing   
here? I thought I asked you to take Dicky and--" She stopped abruptly. "Where's   
Dicky?"  
  
"Safe--!" Bruce began.  
  
"Here, Mom."  
  
Both Bruce and Barbara turned. Dick waved sheepishly at the two of them. Barbara   
stared wide-eyed at her son. Then green eyes flashing she turned to Bruce.  
  
Uh-oh. I'm dead, Bruce thought.  
  
****  
  
They both stood at attention without saying a word. There was no need. Barbara   
was doing enough talking for all of them. Besides, she wasn't giving either of   
them a chance to get a word in edgewise. Bruce swallowed, feeling a small   
trickle of sweat wend its way down his temple.  
  
Oh, boy. Was *she* on a rampage.  
  
Dick watched, blue eyes wide. This wasn't his new mom yelling at him. This was   
Batwoman. He was beginning to not like Batwoman.  
  
"And another thing--!" Barbara began.  
  
"*No*!" Dick yelled. "You're not being fair!" Barbara turned cold, grim eyes to   
the defiant boy. About to speak, Dick beat her to the punch. "Dad 'n me only did   
it 'cause we love you and wanted to help. But you don't love us. Just your ol'   
job."  
  
"Dick--" Barbara began reaching for him. But he turned to Bruce, hiding his face   
in his father's waist. Bruce held him tightly.  
  
"Hey, partner," Bruce said gently. "Don't be too hard on your mom. She loves us.   
That's why she's mad at us. For rushing in where we have no business being."  
  
"But we only wanted to help," Dick sobbed. "I thought we were supposed to be a   
team, like the Flying Graysons. In the circus, the Graysons always did   
everything together."  
  
Barbara knelt next to Dick and gently reached for him. She ran her hands   
tentatively down his cheek and pushed back a stubborn lock of hair.  
  
"Dicky, please understand that this is different. The Flying Graysons were   
performers and it was right for you to be a part of that team. But the Waynes   
aren't performers. I'm a lawyer and Bruce is a doctor. We have to maintain those   
identities in the daylight. People must never learn about what I do at night.   
It's for your own protection."  
  
"No!" Dick insisted. "We're supposed to be a family. Daddy always said that each   
member of the family had to do his part. The Flying Graysons depended on each   
other. If one of us slipped up then we all could've been killed."  
  
"But that's exactly what I'm talking about," Barbara replied. "See, my job is to   
be a lawyer by day and Batwoman by night. Your job is to be our son, Dicky,   
twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. And your dad and I have one more   
job. To love you and protect you. In the end, Dicky, that's our most important   
job."  
  
"You don't trust me," Dick accused. Barbara looked as if she'd been slapped. She   
turned to Bruce for help.  
  
"Dicky, that's not true," Bruce said. "Your mom and I trust you with all our   
heart and soul."  
  
"*You* do," Dick said, his arms crossed. "*She* doesn't." He jutted his chin out   
in defiance.  
  
"Dicky, that's not true," Barbara insisted. "I *do* trust you. I trust you not   
to accidentally reveal my secret identity to others. I trust you to not--"  
  
"You trust me to not do anything," he finished. "Daddy and Mommy trusted me to   
be part of the act. To always be on my mark. To perform a quadruple somersault   
without a net. I learned to walk on the high wire! Daddy always said I was the   
best in the world. And that's not a brag--it's the truth."  
  
"Dicky, I know that you're--" Barbara began, trying to explain, but he wouldn't   
let her.  
  
"And Bruce--I mean, Dad--he can help, too! I know that you and Alfred don't want   
him to learn the trapeze, but when you've been gone, I've taught him a few   
moves. He's really good! And he's taught me some stuff, too. Did you know that   
Dad's a black belt?"  
  
Barbara bit back a smile and nodded seriously. "Yes, Dicky, I knew that."  
  
"He's been showing me how to defend myself."  
  
Barbara gave Bruce a look. Bruce shrugged.  
  
"Hey, he's our son--heir to one of the wealthiest fortunes in the East Coast.   
The kid's gotta know how to take care of himself. We're not gonna be holding his   
hand every minute of the day, are we?"  
  
Barbara glared at him.  
  
"With his acrobatic moves, Dicky's a natural. You saw him back at Oxie's Bar and   
later at Ace Chemicals. Without any real training, he instinctively knew how to   
maximize his spins and ability to gain height against an opponent."  
  
"You're not helping," Barbara growled.  
  
"Babs, I'm not saying that Dicky's gonna go out and be your junior sidekick or   
something--"  
  
"Why not?" Dick protested.  
  
"--what I *am* saying," Bruce continued, "is that we both love you and it's only   
natural for us to want to help and protect you. I mean, Women's Liberation or   
no, you can't fight human nature. We're just a couple of guys who want to   
protect the woman we love."  
  
Barbara stared long and hard at the two of them. Two pairs of identically dark,   
blue eyes steadily held hers, Bruce's with gentle understanding, Dick's with   
angry defiance. Finally, Barbara dropped hers.  
  
She hugged Dick to her, but he remained stiff, keeping his arms at his sides.  
  
"I love you so much, munchkin," Barbara said with intense fervor. "I just   
couldn't bear the thought of seeing you hurt." She looked up at him. "I'm sorry   
I blew up. It was wrong of me. You and your dad were only trying to help."   
  
Dick refused to look at her, his small chin jutting out in anger. Barbara again   
turned to Bruce for help. Bruce shrugged slightly and jerked his head sideways.   
Barbara nodded, and releasing Dick, stood up. Hesitating, she looked at Dick   
once more. He was determinedly staring out the French doors.  
  
Sighing, Barbara walked out of the room.  
  
Bruce stood up and took a few steps away from Dick. He kept his back to the boy   
for a few moments, gathering his thoughts. Finally, he turned to face him. Dick   
was still standing in the middle of the room, unmoving.   
  
"Son, you know you're being very unfair," Bruce began.  
  
"*Me*!?" Dick protested. "*She's* the one who was yelling at us! And we only   
wanted to help her!"  
  
"True. And your mom apologized, didn't she?"  
  
"She's not my mother," Dick growled. Bruce let out a breath.  
  
"So *that's* it, is it?" Bruce didn't say anything further. His words hung in   
the air for a long while. Finally, Dick looked up tentatively, clearly not   
understanding.  
  
"Is *what* it?" he asked.  
  
"If Barbara let's you do what you want, she's your mother. But if she doesn't   
allow you to do something, because she loves you and wants to protect you, then   
she's not your mother?"  
  
"I didn't mean--" Dick protested.  
  
"What about me, son?" Bruce continued. "If I set rules and boundaries for you   
that you don't like, if I send you to your room, or punish you for misbehaving--  
does that mean that *I'm* not your father? Will you only love us when we say   
'yes' but stop loving us when we say 'no'?"  
  
"No, that's not true--!" Dick cried, tears beginning to run down his cheeks.  
  
"Are you going to hold your love for us hostage? Is this the kind of   
relationship you had with your *real* mother and father? Because if it is--"   
Bruce stopped, unable to continue. But his words had the desired effect. With a   
cry, Dick ran to Bruce who in turn gathered him in his arms.  
  
"*No*!" Dick cried. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."  
  
Fighting back tears, Bruce held the boy. "We both love you, Dicky. More than you   
can you know. Maybe we're being overprotective, but you're our first child."   
Bruce gave a small laugh. "We're still learning how to be parents. And we're   
going to make mistakes. But I promise that we'll never stop loving you."  
  
Dick pulled slightly away, blinking back tears and smiling tremulously. "I'll b-  
be happy to sh-show you'n Mom how to do it right."  
  
Bruce gave Dick a half-grin, ruffling the boy's dark hair affectionately. "I'll   
hold you to that, kid. Now, why don't you go find your mom and give her a kiss?   
I think she could really use one just about now."  
  
Dick nodded and ran out of the room.  
  
****  
  
Running down the long, gleaming main corridor Dick felt his heart pounding. He   
felt terrible for what he'd said to Mom. Dad was right. He *was* being unfair.   
Worse, he was being a brat. Daddy would've given him 'what for' for his   
behavior.   
  
Rounding the corner, Dick slid slightly across the highly polished hardwood   
floor. Not looking where he was going, his foot struck something and he went   
sprawling head over heels. Training instinctively took over, and he righted   
himself before he hit the floor, landing correctly.  
  
Looking back, Dick gasped.  
  
"Mom!" he cried. Barbara was lying on the floor, unconscious. "Mom!" He reached   
for her, shaking her. Panicking, Dick ran back to the long hallway and called   
for help.  
  
"Dad! Hurry! It's Mom--something's happened to her!" He was rewarded by Bruce   
appearing suddenly, running down the hallway, Alfred close behind.  
  
"What is, son?" Bruce called. "What's wrong?"  
  
"It's Mom! She's hurt!" Dick ducked back around the corner and hurried to   
Barbara's side, sliding as he reached her. Nervously, he held her head in his   
lap, gently stroking her cheek and combing her hair back. "Mom? Please--I didn't   
mean it. I love you...Please, don't go away. Please...!"   
  
As Bruce and Alfred rounded the corner, he looked up, tears again streaming down   
his cheeks.  
  
"Please, help her. Please--?"  
  
Remaining calm, Bruce spoke quietly. "Alfred, call Leslie. Dicky, go to my study   
and grab my medical bag. I'm taking Mom upstairs to our room. Okay?" Dick nodded   
tearfully, and hurried to do as told.  
  
Bruce first checked Barbara over carefully for any signs of broken bones. Seeing   
no sign of injury except for a slight discoloration on her temple, Bruce gently   
took Barbara in his arms and carried her upstairs...  
  
****  
  
A cold, wet feeling brought awareness back. Barbara blinked her eyes, squinting   
against the bright light shining directly at her.  
  
"She's coming to..." Leslie? What's going on? The bright light snapped off and   
was replaced by a dark spot in front of her. She blinked again, trying to clear   
her vision.  
  
"Leslie--?" she whispered.  
  
"Yes, dear," Leslie said with quiet reassurance.  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"You had a little fall, dear," Leslie explained. "Nothing serious. Just a bump   
on the head."  
  
Focusing finally, Barbara looked around at the circle of worried faces that were   
looking down at her. Leslie stood and Bruce replaced her.  
  
"Hey, Babs," he said quietly. "You had us worried there for a few minutes. Do   
you remember what happened?"  
  
Barbara shook her head.  
  
"I was walking to the kitchen, and then--" she stopped. "The next thing I know,   
I'm here."  
  
Dick came up to her. His face showed obvious signs of recent crying.  
  
"Mommy," he began in a small voice. "I'm sorry for the mean things I said.   
Please don't die."  
  
Barbara gave a short, surprised laugh. "Die? Dicky, sweetheart, I'm not going to   
die...at least, not anytime soon. You heard Doc Leslie. I'm perfectly fine."  
  
With a cry, Dick threw his arms around her. "Promise? Promise you won't go   
away?" Crying herself, Barbara held Dick. Bruce reached across and held her hand   
for support.  
  
"Dicky, I can't promise that I won't die some day, but not today. That I *can*   
promise you. Right, Leslie?" The entire Wayne family turned as one to Leslie   
Thompkins, family physician and close friend.  
  
Smiling reassuringly, she nodded. "I think that we can guarantee that your mom   
isn't going anywhere anytime soon, Dicky. However, I must insist that Batwoman   
doesn't have any nocturnal activities for at least a week."  
  
At Barbara's look, Leslie smiled and amended quickly, "Unless you agree to come   
to my clinic tomorrow for a complete check-up, young lady. I don't like what I   
see right now. You fainted for a reason--exhaustion is one explanation. I want   
to run a series of tests to make sure that that's the only reason."  
  
"But you just said she's okay!" Dick protested, his tone accusatory. Leslie held   
her hands up in a calming gesture.  
  
"I said your mom isn't going anywhere for the moment. But I'd be remiss as your   
physician, Barbara Gordon Wayne, if I didn't insist that you come in for a   
complete check-up. Bruce, I'm leaving it up to you to make sure she's in my   
office tomorrow first thing."  
  
"She'll be there, Leslie. And I guarantee you that she's not going anywhere   
tonight, either." At Barbara's look of protest, he pinned her with a glare. "You   
may be Batwoman, young lady, but I'm a doctor. And unless you're about to make a   
diagnosis without a medical degree, then you'd better just lie there quietly and   
nod your head."  
  
Barbara glared at him, her green eyes flashing.  
  
"Miss Barbara," Alfred interrupted. "A good soldier--as well as a competent   
lawyer--knows when to retreat to fight another day. This is not a surrender,   
young miss. It's a temporary retreat. Listen to your doctor, follow   
instructions, and then argue your case."  
  
"Et tu, Alfred?" she said ironically. The others smiled. Temporarily at least,   
they'd won their case.  
  
****  
  
Chapter Twelve  
  
"Miss Barbara, are you absolutely certain?" Alfred did not look happy as he   
opened the driver's side door. He waited patiently for Barbara to climb behind   
the wheel.  
  
"Really, Alfred, I feel fine!" Barbara smiled at them from the window. "Guys!   
Stop looking so glum! I promise you I'll come straight home from the clinic."  
  
Dick was a picture of unhappiness. He had not been satisfied by the whole 'Your   
mom's probably just exhausted' explanation that Bruce had given him. Dick slept   
restlessly that night and woke up with a sick feeling that there was something   
seriously wrong with his new mom. He kicked the gravel underneath his feet   
without looking up.   
  
Bruce stood next to Dick, his hand on the boy's shoulder. Catching Barbara's   
eye, he gave her a helpless shrug.  
  
"Hey, munchkin," Barbara called. "How about a good-bye kiss?" Dick glanced up   
and reluctantly walked up to her. Standing on tiptoe, he leaned in the driver's   
side window and gave her a light peck on the cheek. Barbara smiled reassuringly.   
"I'm fine, sweetheart. This is just a routine check-up. Okay?"  
  
"Your mom's right, son," Bruce agreed, coming up next to Dick. The despondent   
boy plunged his hands into this pockets, and head hanging, nodded wordlessly.   
Bruce leaned down and, smiling, gave Barbara a brief, but deep kiss.  
  
"Hey, babe, while you're at the clinic, I think that us guys are gonna go catch   
the Knights at-home game this afternoon. They're playing against the Metropolis   
Meteors. It's a real make or break game. They're both tied five-and-O in the   
Eastern Division Conference."  
  
Barbara's blank expression spoke volumes. "The Knights versus Meteors," she   
said. "Sounds like a great game. Baseball, right?"  
  
"Baseball, wrong, World's Greatest Detective," Bruce snorted. "We're talking   
football here! This is the football season. The World Series--otherwise known as   
the baseball championship game--was played two weeks ago!" Bruce shook his head,   
his expression condemning the entire female race.  
  
"Oh." Barbara scrunched her nose at him, looking adorable. She smiled at them   
both. "I'm more into gymnastics," she said defensively.   
  
"Sorry. All out of gymnastics competitions this afternoon," Bruce said wryly.  
  
"Dr. Wayne," Barbara said sweetly, "if you know what's good for you, you'll move   
out of the way, or I might just have to run you over."  
  
Grinning, Bruce stepped back. "We'll be home in time for dinner!" he called.  
  
Barbara waved her understanding.  
  
Alfred stepped forward. "Sir, since you and the young master will be out this   
afternoon, I shall take advantage of it by paying a visit to some of Gotham   
City's more exclusive gourmet food stores. What time will you be home for   
dinner?"  
  
"Well, the game starts at one and should be over a little after three. If Dick's   
up to the excitement, I was thinking about taking him to the amusement park   
afterwards. This is the last weekend before it closes for the season." He   
shrugged. "Six okay?"  
  
"Six, sir? With all you have planned, I'd say midnight at the earliest."   
Alfred's impeccable voice dripped with his usual dry humor. Bruce gave him a wry   
look.   
  
"Well, how about seven?" Bruce asked uncertainly.  
  
"Seven it is. And sir? No cotton candy, please! I have something very special   
planned for tonight, and I don't wish either of your appetites spoiled."  
  
"Who--us?" Bruce asked innocently. And then blankly, added, "What's so special   
about tonight? Is there something I haven't been told about?"  
  
Alfred smiled enigmatically. "Only time can tell, Master Bruce. If you'll excuse   
me?"  
  
Bruce watched as Alfred returned to the mansion with a dignified air. Turning to   
Dick, he saw the boy watching him curiously. Bruce smiled and shrugged.  
  
"What do you say, kid? Are you ready for some football?"  
  
Dick nodded less than enthusiastically.  
  
****  
  
The afternoon passed pleasantly for Bruce and Dick. Bruce's light mood finally   
brought a smile from Dick. By the time they arrived at Gotham Stadium, the boy   
was excited about the game. He'd never attended a professional football game   
before and knew little about the sport, but Bruce's humorous commentary about   
each player's strengths and weaknesses proved infectious.  
  
They cheered as the Knights scored two touchdowns almost back-to-back, gaining   
the upper hand against the Meteors. And then, just as quickly, they groaned in   
disappointment as the Knights' quarterback threw several interceptions in a row,   
giving away their considerable lead.  
  
By the time the final minutes of the fourth quarter were ticking away, the   
Knights were down by seventeen points and the Meteors had possession.  
  
Dick looked despondent. His new Gotham Knights baseball-style souvenir cap hung   
limply in his hands. As the final gun went off, signaling the end of the game,   
Dick stood reluctantly, feeling glum over the loss.  
  
"Dad, do they get *paid* to play like that?" he asked. Bruce gave a short laugh.  
  
"Yeah, believe it or not. They get paid whether they win or lose. Although,   
sometimes I think that fans should demand their money back when a team plays   
this terribly."  
  
Dick sighed. Bruce noticed that he wasn't wearing his new cap.  
  
"So, you ready to give that back to the vendor?" he asked. Dick studied the   
Knights logo momentarily, and then shrugging placed it back on his head.  
  
"I guess not," he admitted.  
  
"Attaboy!" Bruce said. "We Waynes aren't fair weather fans, right?"  
  
"Right!" Dick agreed with a smile. Bruce checked his watch.  
  
"C'mon, kid! Look, it's almost four. You still up to a trip to the amusement   
park and some cotton candy?"  
  
"Oh, boy! I sure am!" Dick cried.  
  
"Okay, but don't tell Alfred! You heard him earlier. He'll rake me over the   
coals if he finds out I've been feeding you spun sugar after he specifically   
warned me not to!"  
  
"Awww...cotton candy's okay. Mommy used to let me have it all the time," Dick   
protested.  
  
"All the time?" Bruce asked dryly.   
  
"Wel-ell. Uh, yeah! Um, I mean, sometimes." At Bruce's single raised eyebrow,   
Dick amended, "Well, maybe every once in a while." Bruce smiled at Dick's   
admission. Dick giggled. "You're funny."  
  
"No, I'm a doctor. More importantly, I'm a children's doctor. I think I have a   
pretty good idea what 'Mommies' let their little boys eat."  
  
"How come you're a little kid's doctor?" Dick asked curiously.   
  
Bruce opened the passenger side door for the boy and strapped him in before   
climbing in himself. Putting the keys in the ignition, he started the car,   
backed out and moved towards the exits. As they waited in the long line of cars   
leaving Gotham Stadium, Bruce finally answered Dick.  
  
"I guess that I went into Pediatrics because I love children, and I want to help   
make them well. So many of my patients are too young to be able to tell me   
what's wrong--or where they hurt...and their parents are just beside themselves   
with worry because they can't help their child get better. They can't make the   
hurt go away."  
  
"But *you* can," Dick said with confidence. Bruce flashed him a smile.  
  
"I do my best," he said. "But sometimes, Dicky...sometimes, it's out of my   
hands. I'm only a doctor. I'm not God. Sometimes a doctor can only do so much,   
and then it's up to Him."  
  
"Why do people have to die?" Dick asked quietly. "Why does God have to let   
people die?" Bruce heard a catch in Dick's voice. "Why did Mommy and Daddy have   
to die?"  
  
Bruce let out a long breath. "Dicky, a question like that...well, there just   
aren't any easy answers. As a doctor, I understand that there is both life and   
death. Death isn't necessarily an evil thing, son. Sometimes a person is so sick   
and in so much pain that death is actually a blessing. Sometimes a person has   
lived a long, full life, and it's just their time. Sometimes--"  
  
Bruce paused unsure of how to continue.  
  
"Sometimes, death happens just because," Dick whispered. He gave Bruce a look   
wise beyond his years. Unable to speak around his constricted throat, Bruce   
reached over and gently caressed Dick's cheek.  
  
"Yeah, munchkin...sometimes death happens 'just because.'"  
  
"Dad? I don't feel like going to the amusement park, after all," Dick said in a   
small voice. "Is that okay?"  
  
Nodding, Bruce thought of where else he could take the suddenly pensive child.   
An idea came to him, and accordingly he looked for the necessary road signs.   
Soon, they passed a solemn sign welcoming them to St. Andrew Cemetery.   
  
Bruce had a feeling that Dick needed to spend some time with his parents.  
  
****   
  
Alfred walked unhurriedly from one favorite gourmet shop to another. Tonight's   
meal was going to be special. If what he believed were true, then the entire   
family would be celebrating before the evening was over.  
  
He smiled--beamed actually--recalling the days leading up to Martha Wayne's   
announcement that she was expecting their first child. Alfred remembered that   
Mrs. Wayne felt nauseous and suffered from a dizzy spell when Dr. Wayne insisted   
that she visit Dr. Thompkins. He recalled the young couple's exuberance at   
finding out that they were about to become parents for the first time.  
  
"I was jolly well ecstatic myself," Alfred muttered. "Quite unseemly, I'm   
afraid." He recalled those joyful days. The Waynes were so happy and so much in   
love. And young Master Bruce was such a happy baby. His parents adored him, and   
he in turn adored them.   
  
"As he now adores Miss Barbara and Master Dick," Alfred murmured.  
  
Alfred took momentary pause at the thought of Dick. How might a baby affect the   
young master? He'd only just grown used to being a member of the family.   
  
"Master Dick will be fine," Alfred said smiling. "Master Bruce and Miss Barbara   
will both ensure that he knows how much he is loved--as shall I."   
  
Alfred walked leisurely through the outdoor pedestrian mall, stopping here and   
there to browse through the exclusive shops that gave this particular market its   
unique flair. Pausing to adjust his packages, he was startled when he was   
suddenly shoved and sent tumbling unceremoniously into a shelf of homemade   
marmalades.  
  
"I say!" he protested. Regaining his feet, he caught sight of a running figure   
in black rounding the corner. A hysterical woman came hurrying up the sidewalk.   
Spotting Alfred, she grabbed him by the arm and pleaded for help. In the back of   
his mind, Alfred noted an odd, almost childish quality to her voice.  
  
"Help me! Please! He stole my purse! Help me!"  
  
Not waiting for further information, Alfred took off after the purse-snatcher.   
Moments later, he rounded the same corner around which he'd seen the thief   
escape. Coming to a stop, he looked around and saw that he'd turned into a   
narrow alleyway. Hesitating slightly, Alfred noticed the late afternoon shadows.  
  
This time of the year, dusk came earlier to Gotham. It was now a little before   
five in the evening. Soon, he'd be cloaked in full darkness.   
  
A sudden noise further ahead galvanized him to action.  
  
Discarding the urbane facade acquired through years of service in the Wayne   
household, Alfred stepped back in time to his years as a covert operative in Her   
Majesty's Secret Service. Keeping stealthily to the deepening gloom, Alfred   
moved noiselessly to the location of the sound.  
  
A small shadow scooted out from under a stack of boxes. Alfred sighed, dropping   
his guard. A black cat! Hissing and screeching, the bedraggled stray leaped up   
and over the high brick wall at the end of the alley.  
  
"I should have my head examined!" Alfred berated himself. "Miss Barbara will   
have *me* standing at attention in the family room next."  
  
At an almost imperceptible scraping sound from behind him, Alfred whirled and   
kicked out. He was rewarded with a resounding ~Oof!~ as he connected solidly   
with his attacker's midsection. In the dark, Alfred could just make out the   
hulking form of the purse-snatcher.   
  
The usually refined valet quickly followed through with the heel of his   
stiffened palm to the thief's chin. His dazed opponent staggered back, and   
Alfred was about to finish him with a roundhouse, when his head seemed to   
explode in a blinding flash of white.  
  
Not quite knowing how he got there, Alfred suddenly found himself lying   
helplessly on the alley floor. Only just holding onto his fading consciousness,   
Alfred's unfocused vision barely registered a pair of soft leather calf boots   
with curled toes that suddenly appeared next to him.   
  
A dim wash of light from a second story window in an adjacent building cast the   
only illumination in the alley. Squinting with effort, Alfred saw that one boot   
was red, the other black.   
  
The tip of the red toe gently nudged him.   
  
"Hey! No loitering here! Can'tcha read?" a childish voice from above him   
mockingly chided. Alfred's eyes traveled up. He noted with detachment that the   
red and black boots were connected to legs of similar color. His eyes continued   
their journey up the obviously feminine torso and finally stopped at the head.  
  
It was currently hidden behind a sign that read, "No Loitering!" With a bubbly   
giggle, the figure tossed the sign carelessly aside.   
  
A bright smile greeted Alfred from behind a domino mask. At first Alfred thought   
the woman had horns, but when she moved her head from side to side, the 'horns'   
proved to be a floppy hat. She was wearing a harlequin costume, he realized.  
  
Who *are* you? Alfred wanted to ask. What do you want? But he couldn't   
articulate the words. Indeed, Alfred wasn't sure he knew *how* to speak.  
  
"Awwww...did my widdle batsy hurt your widdle head?"   
  
The high-pitched, little girl voice suddenly broke into another delighted   
giggle. Alfred immediately recognized the voice as that of the woman who'd had   
her purse stolen. Then, his attack had been planned. But why?  
  
"Why?" he rasped dryly.  
  
At this moment, the moon, hanging low on the horizon, peeked out from behind a   
dark, obscuring cloud and cast its weak illumination into the alleyway.   
  
Alfred saw that the black-and-red clad shapely form standing above him was   
holding an oversized baseball bat. The 'harlequin' struck a dramatic pose and   
then surprised him by blowing an impressively large bubble.   
  
She was chewing gum, Alfred realized.   
  
Pointing proudly at her pink bubble, she took a bow. Abruptly, the narrow alley   
erupted with the sounds of cheers and applause. Alfred looked around in   
confusion. Shaking with silent laughter, the harlequin held out a palm-sized   
recorder. Alfred closed his eyes in disgust. The pre-recorded applause was   
suddenly cut.  
  
Fists on her hips, the over-the-top woman bent over Alfred, popped her bubble   
and expertly sucked it into her mouth without leaving any residue on her lips.  
  
"What'sa matter mistah? Can'tcha take a joke?" Without warning, she threw her   
head back and, holding her arms around her stomach, gave a resounding belly   
laugh. She stopped suddenly, apparently gagging on her gum.   
  
Her partner in crime helpfully slapped her on her back, sending her reeling   
forward. His actions had the desired effect. She coughed up her gum. However,   
she looked extremely put out by the whole thing.   
  
Alfred realized that the brutish hulk's face was garishly made up like that of a   
clown.  
  
"Uh...You okay, Harley?" the clown asked gruffly. Her eyes murderous, Harley   
glared daggers at him, waving her oversized bat. He took a step back fearfully.   
"I-I was only trying to help."  
  
Eyes narrowed, Harley's thunderous expression slowly cleared, until she   
surprised both Alfred and her minion with a bright smile.  
  
"Yeah. I guess you were. Thanks, Fool."   
  
Fool gave her a pathetically relieved smile. Harley kicked Alfred, who was still   
lying confused and unable to move.  
  
"Why mug *you*, you ask? 'Cause my Puddin' thinks it's a great joke to take down   
the Bat-chick in her own home when she's all alone and not suspecting nothing.   
So we need you and that dreamy doc outta the way."  
  
Realizing that he was a mere pawn in their game and that Barbara was their   
primary target, Alfred struggled to regain his feet. He tried sitting up and   
even made it to his knees; however, Harley merely placed her black-booted foot   
firmly on his chest and shoved.   
  
Alfred went tumbling backwards again. He berated his weakness. Screamed at his   
body to obey. He reached for her, but she hauled back and kicked out, solidly   
connecting with the left side of his face.   
  
Alfred's head was forcefully slammed against the alley's concrete walk. He felt   
an ensuing panic as the earlier blackness quickly descended once more. He tried   
to will his unresponsive limbs to act. But to his dismay, he still lay on his   
back, unable to stop the threat to his family.  
  
"You sure are a feisty old geezer, y'know that?" Harley asked. "Look, mistah,   
why don'tcha just lie there quietly? I don't wanna kill you, 'cause then the   
joke won't be so funny."  
  
"Please...don't hurt her...!" Alfred pleaded.  
  
Abruptly, Harley broke into another belly laugh. "See? Don'tcha get it now? It   
ain't funny unless you know what we're doing. My puddin' needs an audience! And   
you and that dreamy Dr. Wayne are gonna be a really good audience! Mistah J is   
gonna be so happy. And when *he's* happy, he makes *me* happy--if you know what   
I mean!" She added this last with a suggestive wink.  
  
Fool guffawed appreciatively at her comment. Without turning, Harley slapped him   
on the side of the head, instantly cutting off his laughter.  
  
"Please...!" Alfred whispered, quickly losing his battle against the darkness.  
  
Frowning, Harley deliberately took out three more sticks of gum and jammed them   
in her mouth. Chewing awkwardly for a few moments, she was soon snapping the gum   
in her mouth. Pausing dramatically, she expertly blew another pink bubble.   
  
As a cloud again blanked out the moon's weak illumination, the mysterious   
harlequin again popped her bubble, sucked in her gum, and then with a carefree   
wave and a "Ta!" skipped off merrily with her brutish accomplice. She blithely   
spun in a graceful pirouette, cartwheeled, and back-flipped into the shadows.  
  
Losing his last tenuous hold on reality, Alfred heard the woman's slightly off-  
key warbling fade as his senses finally shut down.  
  
"Girls just wanna have fu-unn...!"  
  
****  
  
St. Andrew Cemetery lay bleak and desolate in the late autumn evening. The woods   
surrounding the final resting place of most of Gotham City's leading citizens   
were starkly naked while they waited for winter's snowy blanket. Dick looked   
around the deserted grounds. Theirs was the only car in the parking lot.  
  
"Here, put this on," Bruce said, holding out Dick's jacket. Nodding Dick   
shrugged into it. A few minutes later, they arrived at his parents' gravesite.   
Bruce gently squeezed Dick's shoulder, and then moved away to wait at a   
respectful distance.  
  
Finding a bench a few yards away, Bruce sat down and watched his son from afar.   
He saw the boy approach his parents' graves and stand still before them.   
Unexpectedly, Dick fell forward on his knees and threw his arms around his   
mother's headstone.  
  
Bruce was instantly on his feet and running back to him.  
  
"You're an idiot!" he fiercely chastised himself. "It's still too soon for him!   
Unforgivable!"   
  
Bruce could see Dick's shoulders shaking as he sobbed soundlessly. About to   
reach for him, Bruce was startled by the unmistakable sounds of gunfire ripping   
open the cemetery's reverent silence.  
  
Dick whirled around at the sharp rifle crack, his eyes wide. Dirt kicking up a   
few feet from him indicated where the bullets were hitting.  
  
"Dicky! Behind the headstones! Now!"   
  
Dick didn't take the time to acknowledge, he simply leaped, somersaulting over   
and behind his mother's granite tombstone. Bruce went into maximum overdrive,   
and covering the last few feet, dove in after Dick.  
  
Rolling several times as he landed, Bruce searched frantically for the boy.   
  
"Dick!" he hissed. Where *was* he?   
  
He ducked as several more shots rang out. He could hear them whizzing by   
overhead.  
  
"Dad! Over here!"   
  
Bruce turned and saw Dick huddled a few gravestones down. In the ensuing   
darkness, the boy was little more than a small shadow within the blacker gloom.   
Staying low, Bruce ran in a crouch towards Dick--resisting the urge to fall face   
down each time he heard the staccato notes of automatic gunfire--and nearly fell   
on top of Dick in his urgent need to reach him. Within moments, he was clutching   
Dick to him with fervent desperation.  
  
"Dad--?" Dick's frightened voice sounded urgent. "What's happening? Why are they   
shooting at us?"  
  
"I don't know, son," Bruce whispered with equal fervor. "But we can't stay and   
find out." Bruce faced Dick squarely, holding him tightly. "Dicky, we're going   
to have to make a run for it. Do you think you can--?"  
  
He was interrupted by another burst of fire from their attackers. Bruce   
instinctively protected Dick with his own body as bullets ricocheted around   
them. He cocked his head, listening. That volley of deadly fire had sounded   
different somehow.  
  
"I can do it!" Dick insisted, nodding for added emphasis.   
  
Locking eyes in the dark with his son, Bruce thought he would lose a piece of   
his heart should anything happen to the boy. He tamped down the fear that   
threatened to overwhelm him, and smiling encouragingly, lightly caressed Dick's   
cheek with the back of his hand.  
  
"I know you can," Bruce said quietly. Dick was about to answer, when Bruce   
suddenly held his finger to his lips, indicating that they listen.   
  
Dick nodded, eyes wide. The cemetery rang with an eerie silence. Bruce made a   
mental calculation. The last shots he'd heard sounded as if the shooter had   
moved to a different location. The other option was that this was a second   
sniper.  
  
He had to get Dick to safety. Time to move.   
  
"Dick, listen closely," Bruce began urgently. "We're going to have to move   
quickly. We need to stay low, keeping the tombstones between the snipers and us.   
We'll take turns. First you--then I'll follow. Think you can do that?"  
  
"Of course, I can," Dick said scornfully. Bruce smiled proudly.  
  
"Let's go then."  
  
They took off at a low crouch. Bruce's instincts told him to return to the car.   
However, his common sense told him that the snipers knew where the car was   
parked and that they probably expected him to try to return to it.  
  
He silently kicked himself for leaving his cell phone in the car. Bruce paused   
for a few seconds to assess their situation. The car was out of the question. If   
they kept to the shadows afforded by the tree line, it was possible that they   
might escape undetected.  
  
****  
  
Barbara parked her car and popped the trunk. It was late, and she'd promised to   
come straight home from the clinic. Instead, she'd spent the better of the   
afternoon shopping.  
  
"With the news I have, they can't really blame me, can they?" she asked half-  
defensively. Hurrying to the rear of the car, she stared at the numerous bags   
and packages crammed inside the trunk.  
  
"I guess I overdid it just a bit," she admitted wistfully. She picked up a   
pastel pink and blue baby's rattle and gave it a small shake. Smiling to   
herself, she opted to unload the car later, *after* she shared her news with the   
family.   
  
"*After* I tell Bruce," she whispered. "*After* I see the look in his eyes."  
  
Overcome with excitement, Barbara hurried from the detached garage towards the   
front portico, her ebullience fairly bubbling forth.   
  
"A baby!" she cried. "We're gonna have a baby!" She twirled in place, and then   
for the sheer fun of it, ran out onto the immaculately maintained grounds and   
executed a rapid series of handsprings across the front lawn. She rounded them   
off with a flourish, her arms upraised in a victory salute.  
  
"I'm gonna be a mommy!" Running lightly to the front door, Barbara unlocked it,   
reset the home alarm system, and hurried inside.  
  
"Alfred!" she called. There was no answer. She glanced at her watch. It was   
almost seven. Where *was* everyone? She felt momentarily deflated. Thinking   
about her news, she was instantly suffused with indescribable joy.  
  
"Bruce wanted me to give up Batwoman. I guess I don't have a choice now." She   
smiled. "And it's all *his* fault!" She giggled at the thought. "Well, I wasn't   
exactly an unwilling participant. Oh, Babs you're a naughty girl." She hugged   
herself, unconsciously running her hands lightly across her tummy. "You haven't   
even been born yet, and you're already causing trouble. What will you be like as   
a teenager?"  
  
Barbara laughed again, feeling almost giddy from delight.  
  
"Oh, Bruce, we're going to be so happy. You, me, Dicky, Alfred, and our new   
baby." Barbara stood in the middle of the entrance foyer for a few minutes just   
letting the feeling of euphoria wash over her, her eyes closed.  
  
Suddenly, her emerald eyes snapped open.   
  
"Dinner! Alfred's late for some reason. I've gotta get dinner ready." She   
paused. "Right. And I'm Martha Stewart. Oh, jeez, come on Babs, you're the so-  
called World's Greatest Detective, think of something..." Her eyes lit up.   
"Chinese take-out!"  
  
Her face fell.  
  
"Alfred would kill me...Wait--I know! That new French restaurant that just   
opened--Arnaud's or something. They deliver--or they *will* deliver when I offer   
them an indecent tip. Yeah...Phone book...where's the phone book?"  
  
Barbara searched fruitlessly for a few moments, and then with sudden inspiration   
called directory assistance. Within minutes, she'd ordered a French gourmet   
dinner for four. The maitre d' assured her that her dinner would arrive within a   
half hour.  
  
She checked the time again. It was seven exactly.  
  
Hanging up, Barbara laughed at this. "I wonder if it's free if they're late."   
She shrugged. "If I'd known that French gourmet had the same delivery time as a   
pizza, I'd have done this long ago."  
  
Hurrying upstairs, Barbara quickly showered and changed. She checked her watch.   
A quarter after seven. Where *was* everyone? It wasn't like Alfred not to call.   
Or Bruce, for that matter. She checked the answering machine for messages.   
  
A credit card company representative left a message assuring Richard Grayson   
that he was automatically considered for a 'Platinum' card with a 50 thousand   
dollar limit. Barbara rolled her eyes.  
  
A rival telephone company called urging them to upgrade to their new and   
improved fiber-optic system. Barbara shook her head impatiently.  
  
The rest of the messages were likewise representatives from one commercial venue   
or another.  
  
"Whatever happened to junk mail?" she complained. Then added worriedly, "Where   
*are* they?" She pushed down the nagging feeling that something was wrong.  
  
"Stop thinking negative thoughts, Babs," she chastised taking out the table   
linen. "The boys are just having a good time and forgot to call. That's all."  
  
But the niggling doubt wouldn't go away. Unable to put the worry aside any   
longer, she decided to call the GCPD just in case. About to reach for the phone,   
it rang at the same moment. Smiling with relief, she picked it up and spoke into   
it.  
  
"It's about time you called. I was beginning to worry--!"  
  
She was interrupted by a familiar, gruff voice at the other end, Lt. Bullock.   
She sighed disappointedly, believing that the call was work related.   
  
"Ms. G? Bullock here. Ma'am, I just got a report that--"  
  
The front doorbell buzzed at this moment.  
  
"Dinner!" she said.   
  
"What?" Bullock asked. "Ms. G, I gotta tell you that--"  
  
"Lt. Bullock, excuse me a minute, please. That was the doorbell. I'll be right   
back."  
  
"Ms. G, wait--!"   
  
Barbara hurriedly laid the receiver down on the kitchen countertop and headed   
towards the front door. She carefully looked through the peephole and saw that   
it was the deliveryman from Arnaud's.  
  
Disarming the home security system, Barbara quickly opened the front door and   
was confronted by a nightmare.  
  
"Delivery boy! Get it while it's hot!" A strange man made up as a clown from a   
hellish nightmare stood in her front step, holding what was possibly the most   
ridiculous looking weapon she'd ever seen--a blunderbuss, she realized. The   
clown had a frightening, evil grin plastered on his face as he greeted her.  
  
The Arnaud deliveryman was now lying on the ground, the same wicked grin, frozen   
in a perpetual death mask as the waiter at the Skyline Restaurant. In the short   
time that she'd taken to disarm the alarm system, the poor deliveryman had been   
hideously murdered.  
  
Caught off guard, Barbara leaped and kicked out at the same time that the Clown   
from Hell pulled the trigger. The scattergun's fluted end, which was aimed at   
her pointblank, fired once. But that was all that was needed.   
  
Barbara was thrown back. She felt as if a horse had kicked her in the stomach.   
She felt strangely separated from herself, warm and cold all at the same time.   
She couldn't move. Where was she? What was happening?  
  
She felt as if she were inside a bottle, her hearing stopped up. She heard a   
muffled sound somewhere in the distance.   
  
It was a frightening sound. An evil sound. What was it?  
  
Barbara's hearing suddenly cleared, and she knew.  
  
Laughter. Insane, evil laughter. The ravings of a madman.  
  
"Camera--! Jester, where's my camera?"   
  
"Here, Boss! What'cha gonna do with it?"  
  
"Why record my greatest moment. This is a celebration. The night I clipped the   
Bat-chick's wings. One should always take pictures at a celebration!"  
  
"Oh. Uh, sure, boss. Pictures--great idea!"  
  
"Jester, finish setting the table while I work. We wouldn't want this delicious   
gourmet meal to go to waste, would we? After all, there are children starving   
all around the world, aren't there?"  
  
"You sure have such a big heart, boss!" Jester exclaimed.  
  
"Forgive me, Bruce..." Barbara murmured. She clenched her eyes against the   
bright flashes of the camera as it recorded her pain. Lying in a fetal position,   
Barbara clutched her hands across her abdomen. Angry tears began to flow as her   
world faded into oblivion.   
  
"My baby..." she whispered.  
  
As she lost consciousness, Barbara faced the security cameras and began to   
blink...  
  
****  
  
Chapter Thirteen  
  
The cemetery reverberated with deadly fire--fierce, unremitting, and lethal--  
from two directions. Dick huddled in Bruce's arms, struggling to be brave. They   
were lying at the base of an ornate marble statue of a cherub. Ironically, the   
angel gazed down upon them with a profoundly peaceful expression, his hands held   
out in a beneficent blessing.   
  
At this moment, several rounds hit the serene statue, causing it to explode   
outwardly in a sudden shower of razor-edged shards. Bruce automatically covered   
Dick, protecting him from the falling debris. The snipers' fire effectively held   
them pinned, the rounds hitting just shy or overhead of their position. However,   
as soon as they attempted to move, the fire intensified, coming closer.   
  
Bruce's unease mounted. They were being toyed with, he knew. For some reason,   
the shooters were determined to keep them immobilized. So far, he'd been able to   
keep Dick safe, however, at any given moment, this dangerous game of cat and   
mouse could turn deadly.  
  
Bruce had to get Dick away. But how?   
  
A shot unexpectedly ricocheted less than six inches from his face. Dick gasped   
in surprise, frightened.   
  
Their position was growing untenable. They had to take a chance and make a run   
for it. The only option left was their earlier headstone hopping. But each move   
would be risky, possibly their last.  
  
"Dicky, listen to me, son," Bruce began. "We can't stay here. Sooner or later   
they're going to tire of this game. Remember what we did earlier?"  
  
Dick nodded. "Escape and evasion?" he asked innocently. Bruce gave him a   
quizzical look.  
  
"Where do you *get* these ideas?" he asked.   
  
"Mom."  
  
"I always say your Mom knows best," Bruce quipped. "Escape and evasion, it is.   
Son, you'll have to run and dodge faster than ever before. You'll be stealing   
home, Dicky, and you've gotta beat the throw to home plate. You understand?"  
  
"I think so. You know, Mom told me that you loved sports a whole lot. Even for a   
guy."  
  
Bruce snorted. "Mom told you that, huh?" Dick nodded, smiling. "Well, I guess   
Mom knows me better than--"  
  
They ducked as another barrage came too close.  
  
"--than anyone else I know, except maybe Alfred," Bruce finished smoothly. "And   
speaking of Mom...Dicky, you know how much we both love you, don't you?"  
  
"Uh-huh," Dick said.  
  
"Good. Whatever happens, son, remember that," Bruce said.   
  
"We'll be okay, Dad. You don't have to worry. I'll steal home, you'll see."  
  
"I know you will, kid."   
  
Pointing Dick in the direction he wanted to go, Bruce waited for the next volley   
of fire, which didn't come. Bruce wasn't sure why, but suspected that the   
shooters were possibly moving in closer. He looked around, trying to remain   
calm, but feeling the mounting anxiety.   
  
The endless rows of tombstones lay in eerie silence, as if waiting. Everywhere,   
Bruce saw a reminder of death's finality. He felt an icy hand squeeze his   
intestines.  
  
"This is it," he muttered.  
  
Bruce remembered that the cemetery caretaker's cottage was located somewhere in   
the northeastern corner of the grounds. Nodding to Dick that it was time to go,   
Bruce kept the parking lot, which lay directly to their west, behind them,   
steering a north by east course as they dodged from one headstone to the next.  
  
As they ran, the two fugitives were trailed by an intermittent spray of gunfire.   
A few times, Bruce grabbed Dick and threw him to the ground, covering him from a   
sudden ricochet that glanced too close for comfort.  
  
Keeping low, they finally made it to the tree line. Staying well inside the tree   
cover, the two picked up speed. Bruce tightly held onto Dick's hand, not wanting   
to lose him in the dark. As the Hunter's moon rose, it washed the deserted   
cemetery in its translucent, silvery sheen.  
  
Within minutes, Bruce spotted the caretaker's cottage. Its windows were dark   
with no sign of movement. Bruce stopped at the edge of the wood line. To reach   
the small house they'd have to cross an open field. He swore under his breath.   
  
"We can make it, Dad," Dick said with reassurance. Bruce ruffled his hair   
affectionately, but shook his head.  
  
"It's too risky--" he started to say, but at that moment, a sharp sound behind   
them told him that they'd been tracked by the snipers. Bruce grabbed Dick's hand   
and led him on a reckless dash along the wood's edge, almost losing his footing   
a couple of times in his rush.  
  
A shot rang out. Bruce threw himself to the ground, dragging Dick along with   
him.   
  
"Behind the tree," he hissed. Dick nodded and quickly scrambled to the other   
side of a large oak with Bruce closely following.   
  
"Dad--?" Dick began, but Bruce clapped his hand over the boy's mouth. He   
crouched behind the tree's negligent protection for a few moments, listening.   
The woods waited in unnatural silence. Overhead, the dim roar of a passenger jet   
could be heard. Then utter stillness.  
  
About to stand, Bruce suddenly froze. A gentle breeze carried the slightest   
whisper of sound--that of cloth rubbing against bark--from less than twenty feet   
away.  
  
Placing his finger to his lips, Bruce indicated that Dick should lie still. The   
boy's wide blue eyes looked frightened, but he nodded.  
  
Remaining low, Bruce rose and began to carefully edge towards the location of   
the sound. Seemingly taking forever, Bruce was at last rewarded by the broad   
back of one of his assailants. Not wanting to take a chance, Bruce felt the   
ground around him for a weapon he might be able to use.  
  
His hand closed around a thick rock. Picking it up, he was satisfied by the feel   
of its weight. Then putting all of his fear and frustration into it, Bruce   
struck the sniper a forceful blow to the back of the neck. The would-be killer   
went down without a sound. Bruce collapsed on his knees, overcome by what he'd   
just done.  
  
In the past several weeks, his personal aversion against violence had become   
blurred. His willingness to inflict pain and hurt in order to protect his family   
was a side to him that he'd never suspected. Yet, he knew that he'd have   
willingly killed this man in order to protect his son.  
  
Swallowing back the bile that threatened to rise in his throat, Bruce reached   
over and checked the gunman's pulse. Steady. He was unconscious but in no   
danger. His momentary relief was quickly dampened when he saw the high-powered   
rifle underneath the sniper's body.  
  
Taking it, Bruce expertly dismantled it.   
  
"I may not like these things," he muttered. "But that doesn't mean I don't know   
how to use them." Bruce flung the firing pin and bolt in opposite directions. He   
removed the telescopic sights and slammed the rock against them.  
  
Finally, he used the gunman's own belt to tie the assassin's hands behind his   
back.  
  
"Won't hold you for long, but it'll do for now." Bruce stood slowly, his   
breathing ragged, and then turned back to where he'd left Dick.   
  
Locating the boy, Bruce led him back to the edge of the woods. Crouching low, he   
studied the otherworldly landscape. The grounds surrounding the caretaker's   
cottage were immaculately kept, much like those of Wayne Manor. Unfortunately,   
it was completely open space, unbroken by any trees or shrubbery.   
  
"What happened, Dad?" Dick asked.   
  
"The other guy decided he needed a nap," Bruce replied. "It's getting really   
late, so I guess he's a little tired." Dick snorted, but didn't ask any further   
questions.  
  
"Son, that was only one. There's still a second gunman out there, waiting. We   
might be able to avoid him in the dark, but the odds are on the side of the guy   
with the gun." He sighed. "Our only hope lies over there."   
  
Bruce pointed at the picturesque cottage with his chin. "There's bound to be a   
phone in there that we can use to call for help. Also, the stone exterior is   
more protection than the woods. The problem--" Bruce paused.  
  
"The problem is getting there, huh?" Dick asked. "Without getting shot, right?"  
  
"Uh-huh," Bruce said, unconsciously echoing Dick. He looked up at the night sky.   
A line of storm clouds was rapidly rolling in from the west. "Looks like rain.   
Maybe we should wait--"  
  
A shot rang out, its sharp clap echoing continuously around the silent woods.   
This time, the shot was accompanied by a shout.  
  
"Come on, Doc! No sense hiding. You don't stand a chance. Besides, we don't want   
you--we want the kid!"  
  
Dick gasped at this. Bruce quickly shook his head, silencing him.  
  
Another shot.  
  
"Yeah, that's right, Doc!" the distant voice echoed, carrying in the fresh   
breeze that was suddenly kicking up. "My boss wants the kid real bad. And I'll   
go through you if I have to--but I really don't want to."  
  
"Dad, maybe you should do like he says," Dick offered bravely. "I'm not scared."   
  
Bruce looked thunderous at the boy's suggestion, but quickly tamped down his   
initial angry retort and gently cupped the boy's chin in his hand.   
  
The next instant, a cloud moved across the moon, and the entire cemetery was   
suddenly blanketed in darkness. This was the opportunity they'd been waiting   
for!  
  
Without delay, Bruce and Dick cleared the wood line, sprinting as if the devil   
himself were following them. Bruce could almost feel the sights being aimed   
between his shoulder blades. Within seconds he and Dick were hugging the rough   
outer wall of the quaint cottage. Feeling their way in the dark, they found the   
front door and tried the knob.  
  
"Locked," Bruce muttered. "What a surprise. Come on, let's see if we can find an   
open window."  
  
They tried all the windows, but found them also locked. Sighing, Bruce   
remembered what happened the last time he'd broken a window to enter a building.  
  
"Almost lost my arm," he groused. Shrugging out of his leather jacket, he   
carefully wrapped it around his arm. "When I married your mom," he griped, "I   
didn't realize that entering buildings through the front door was gonna become a   
thing of the past. Or that I'd have to get used to being shot at every other day   
or so."   
  
His mouth quirked in a half-grin, softening his words.   
  
"Step back and cover your face," he ordered. Nodding, Dick did as he was told.   
With that, Bruce broke the pane of glass with his protected arm. Carefully, he   
removed the shards of glass, reached in and unlocked the window.   
  
Within moments, they were inside and Bruce looked for a phone. Spotting it on   
the kitchen counter, he quickly dialed 9-1-1.  
  
"Nine-one-one operator. What is your emergency?"  
  
"This is Dr. Bruce Wayne," Bruce said rapidly. "Someone's shooting at us!   
Please, we're in the caretaker's cottage at St. Andrew Cemetery and--!"  
  
"Sir, please slow down. I copy that someone's shooting at you at St. Andrew   
Cemetery?"  
  
"Yes, shooting at my son and me!"  
  
"Sir, do you know who's shooting at you?"  
  
"No! Please, can you send help? They could be right outside!"  
  
"Yes, sir, the police are on their way."  
  
"Thank God," Bruce said, sounding relieved.  
  
"Sir? Can you repeat your location?"  
  
"We're in the caretaker's cottage on the northeastern corner of the cemetery."  
  
"I copy you're located in the caretaker's cottage. Dr. Wayne? I have an incoming   
call for you, sir. Lt. Bullock from the GCPD Major Incidents Unit."  
  
"Look, I don't have time to talk!" Bruce protested. "Those men could be right   
outside--!"   
  
"Doc?" Bullock called, sounding rushed. "Doc, we've been lookin' all over Gotham   
for you!"  
  
"Looking for me?" Bruce repeated. The same feeling of dread he'd had all night   
rushed back in a flood. "Bullock, what's going on? What's wrong?"  
  
"Doc, I've got some bad news for you..."  
  
****  
  
When he heard the 911 call over the police band, Bullock jumped into his sedan   
and grabbed his mike.  
  
"Dispatch! This is Bullock! I need you to patch me through to the nine-one-one   
operator ASAP! I need to talk with Dr. Bruce Wayne. This is an emergency!"  
  
"Lt. Bullock," the dispatcher's calm voice said over the radio, "please stand   
by."  
  
Bullock glared angrily at the chaos around him, his black mood magnified by the   
intermittently flashing blue and red lights. The beautiful grounds surrounding   
Wayne Manor seemed to blink on and off in a weird, strobe-like effect.  
  
He heard the Medivac helicopter's rotors whine as the air ambulance prepared for   
takeoff. The EMTs informed him that Barbara Wayne was still alive but just   
barely. Unconsciously, Bullock gripped the mike tighter, recalling the whirlwind   
events of the night.  
  
He'd been on his way to pay her a visit. A black and white unit reported finding   
a mugging victim in the Tri-Corner historic shopping district--Alfred   
Pennyworth. Knowing how close Barbara was to the Wayne family butler, he called   
her immediately to let her know that he was on his way to talk to her.   
  
But she'd excused herself to answer the door. That's when Bullock heard what   
sounded like a shotgun blast. He instantly scrambled any available unit to the   
Wayne residence.   
  
Bullock closed his eyes against the stark images that he'd confronted when he   
stepped in the front door. It had been enough to make the crusty, cynical cop in   
him almost lose control.  
  
"Ms. G--!" he'd rasped.  
  
Barbara Wayne lay in a pool of her own blood, deathly still. Next to her head   
were a series of Polaroid shots neatly laid out for maximum effect. Bullock felt   
the bile threaten again.   
  
What those bastards had done to her--!  
  
Afterwards, her torturers had even started to eat the French gourmet meal that   
she'd ordered. The sirens must've interrupted their planned celebration, Bullock   
thought grimly. And the deliveryman--dead! They'd found him outside, his body   
dragged into the shrubbery. Same M.O. as the waiter at the Skyline Restaurant.   
  
"Maybe the killer hates waiters or something," Bullock mused absently. "Or   
maybe--!"  
  
"Lt. Bullock, we've you patched through the nine-one-one operator. Dr. Wayne is   
on the line. Go ahead, please."  
  
Bruce's raised voice suddenly came over his radio.  
  
"Look, I don't have time to talk!" Bruce protested. "Those men could be right   
outside--!"   
  
"Doc?" Bullock called, relieved to have finally gotten through. "Doc, we've been   
lookin' all over Gotham for you!"  
  
"Looking for me?" Bruce repeated, sounding suddenly worried. "Bullock, what's   
going on? What's wrong?"  
  
"Doc, I've got some bad news for you," he began only to be interrupted by the   
sudden sounds of breaking glass and panicked shouts in the background. A loud   
~thunk!~ told him that Bruce had probably just dropped the phone.  
  
"Doc! What's going on?" he yelled. He heard Bruce calling for his son.  
  
"Dicky! Gas! The door, Dicky! Now!"  
  
Bullock started barking orders into the mike as the panicked voices continued   
over the air.   
  
"All units! This is Lt. Bullock--!   
  
"Dad! Dad, I can't see! Help!"  
  
"I need a scramble to St. Andrew Cemetery--!" As he shouted orders, Bullock   
strapped on his seatbelt and roared out of the Wayne Manor's circular driveway.  
  
"Here, son. Over here...!" Bruce's voice was beginning to sound woozy, as if he   
were suddenly drunk.  
  
"All units, approach St. Andrew Cemetery with caution--!"  
  
Another voice spoke up. "I told you my boss wanted the kid real bad, Doc."  
  
"No...please...not the boy..."  
  
"Possible gunman--!"  
  
"Sorry, Doc. But when my boss says jump--! Well, you get the idea."  
  
"Lemme...alone..." The boy's weak protest clutched at Bullock's throat.  
  
"Possible kidnapping in progress--!" he shouted.  
  
"Don't worry, kid. I ain't gonna hurt you. Good thing for you two, the boss   
don't want you dead--at least not yet!"  
  
"Repeat! Approach with caution--!"  
  
"Please, don't...hurt him..." Bruce's weak voice could be barely heard over the   
open line.  
  
"Suspect is possibly armed and dangerous! Repeat--!"  
  
****  
  
Chapter Fourteen  
  
He heard them before he could see them.   
  
"How is he?"  
  
"Coming to..."  
  
Funny, he couldn't remember having gone to sleep.   
  
"Bruce, dear, wake up now."  
  
"Leslie...?" he croaked.  
  
"Here, dear. Drink this--"  
  
Bruce felt something on his lower lip, a straw. He sipped automatically. The   
water felt cool and refreshing in his throat. But why couldn't he see? Realizing   
that his eyes were closed, he concentrated for a few moments and then slowly   
blinked them open.  
  
As full consciousness came back to him, Bruce noticed the painful throbbing in   
his head. He groaned slightly.  
  
"Where am I? What happened?" he managed.  
  
"You're at Wayne-Thompkins Clinic, dear," Leslie said, smoothing his forehead.  
  
"As for what happened," a new voice growled. "You tell *us*, Doc."  
  
Bruce turned to the sound of the harsh voice. He blinked several times to clear   
his vision. Bullock.  
  
"Lieutenant--?" he asked. "What--?" He stopped. Suddenly, the night's dangers   
came crashing back down again.  
  
"Dicky!" he yelled, sitting up. "They *took* him! You've got to *find* him--!"  
  
"Bruce!" Leslie was next to him in an instant, her hands on his shoulders,   
gently pushing him back. "Bruce, dear, the gas isn't entirely out of your   
system. You need rest--!"  
  
"Gas--?" he asked distractedly, struggling to remain up, but too weak to fight   
her. "Leslie! He's got Dicky. I've got to go find him. He was depending on me. I   
was supposed to protect him..."  
  
Bruce spoke quickly and in quiet desperation.  
  
"Ma'am, may I ask him some questions?" Bullock asked from over and to Bruce's   
left. Bruce looked at him, his anger building, threatening to overwhelm him.  
  
"Why aren't you out *looking* for him! I *told* you they *took* him!" He felt   
the words catch in his throat, his eyes stinging from tears that were only a few   
seconds away.  
  
"It was my job to protect him. Babs--? Where's Babs?" he turned to Leslie and   
grabbed her by the arms. "Leslie, she'll know what to do. Please--!" He closed   
his eyes and clenched his jaw against the raw emotions raging within him.   
"Somebody tell me where my *wife* is?"  
  
Bruce's question hung heavily in the air. An accusation. Leslie and Bullock   
glanced at each other, a silent message passing between them. Bruce stared from   
one to the other, the same feeling of dread that seemed to have become a part   
him reawakening.  
  
"What *is* it, Leslie? Where's Babs?" When no answer came, Bruce struggled to   
sit up. Biting back the cold fear that gripped him, he forced himself to ask,   
"Leslie, Bullock, where's my wife?" And then a whisper, "Has something happened   
to Babs?"  
  
Bullock stepped forward, looking uncomfortable. He seemed to be looking   
everywhere except at Bruce.   
  
"That's what you were trying to tell me earlier, weren't you? You were going to   
tell me that something happened to Babs."  
  
Bullock nodded wordlessly.   
  
"I-Is she--? She's not--?" He couldn't finish the question. The tears that had   
threatened finally came. Not Babs, he thought. He was suddenly enfolded in   
familiar arms.   
  
"No, sweetheart," Leslie soothed, her own voice desperately sad. "No. Barbara is   
not dead." She held him gently for a few more moments. "No, she's not dead."   
  
Bruce heard the catch in her voice. Looking up slowly, he met Leslie's warm   
brown eyes. Before he could ask, she ran her hand down his cheek and then sat   
back.  
  
"You'll have to be very strong, dear. For your family. Our poor Barbara--"  
  
Bruce suddenly felt as if he'd left his body. He was drowning. The black, cold   
waters off Gotham Harbor were inundating him. He couldn't breathe. The roaring   
in his ears grew thunderous.  
  
He was moving but didn't know where he was going. He just knew that he had to go   
to her. Wherever she was, he had to find her.   
  
Not Babs, he denied. Oh, God, not Babs.  
  
Powerful arms grabbed him from behind and started dragging him back.  
  
"Doc! She's not here!"  
  
"Bruce, it's true. Barbara's in Gotham Memorial. It's the only trauma unit that   
could handle her case. Please, dear, you won't do her any good if you collapse."  
  
"I've got to get to her," he said through gritted teeth.  
  
"Bruce, please, dear. You must be strong. For Barbara's sake."  
  
Swallowing, Bruce fought for control. Nodding, he allowed Bullock to help him   
back into bed.  
  
"Tell me," he rasped, eyes closed.  
  
Leslie's quiet, soothing voice began explaining Barbara's condition. As she   
spoke, her words sent him plummeting into the dizzying vortex once more.  
  
"...critical...massive blood loss...intensive care...shattered the spine...And   
the baby--Oh, God, Bruce! I'm so terribly sorry--!"  
  
"Baby? We were g-going to have a baby--?" His eyes were void of expression. A   
baby--his life's dream, shattered. "Will she...? Will we...?" he swallowed. "Can   
we ever...again?"  
  
At Leslie's sorrowful shake of the head, Bruce felt as if he were plunging into   
a gaping pit.  
  
Bruce grabbed for a lifeline. Alfred! Bruce couldn't recall the countless times   
he'd turned to his second father since before he'd uttered his first words.   
Alfred would know what to do. Alfred always knew what to do.  
  
"Wh-Where's Alfred? I-I've gotta t-talk to Alfred--" he managed.  
  
"No, dear," Leslie apologized softly. "We can't disturb him just yet. He needs   
his rest."  
  
Bruce hadn't realized that he'd spoken out loud. He swallowed around the dryness   
in his throat and tried to protest.  
  
"But, he'll know--" he began.  
  
"Doc, Pennyworth was found in an alley, his ribs caved in and wearing a pretty   
big bump on the head." Bullock's usually taciturn voice sounded apologetic.   
  
"What?" Bruce blinked his eyes open and sat up, stunned. "Alfred, too? But   
that's impossible." He looked at Leslie. Her expression confirmed Bullock's   
words. "Where is he?"  
  
"Alfred's down the hall, dear. His condition is serious, but not critical. And   
I'm not about to give him any excuse to get out of bed and insist on scrubbing   
down the clinic's walls and floors."  
  
"But if Alfred was hurt, too, th-then that means all of us--" Bruce hesitated,   
unsure about what he was saying. Catching Bullock's eyes, he saw that the police   
detective had already arrived at the same conclusion.   
  
"Bullock," Bruce whispered fiercely, "you're saying that my entire family was   
targeted tonight. That someone deliberately planned this vicious and unprovoked   
attack on each member of my family!"  
  
Bullock nodded.  
  
"That's how I see it, Doc," he said.  
  
"But why?" Bruce demanded. "It doesn't make any sense."  
  
"Could be any number of reasons, Doc. Ms. G, now, she could've made some   
powerful enemies and this is just payback. You don't become Gotham City's most   
successful prosecuting attorney without getting yourself inside *someone's*   
crosshairs--!"  
  
"Lieutenant!" Leslie protested.   
  
"Sorry, ma'am, but the doc here's gotta be prepared for the worst."  
  
"It's okay, Leslie," Bruce said quietly. "You said 'a number of reasons,'   
Bullock. What else do you think?"  
  
Bullock glanced over at Leslie, giving her an inscrutable look. Leslie's eyes   
widened and she shook her head emphatically.   
  
"What *is* it?" Bruce asked. "What aren't you telling me, Bullock?"  
  
Leslie turned to him, her tone soothing. "Bruce, dear, you've had a terrible   
shock. You need to get some rest. When you wake, Lt. Bullock will be back. Until   
then--"  
  
"Dammit, Leslie!" Bruce snapped. "I'm not a child. And I'm not stupid. There's   
something you're not telling me. What *is* it? Is it about Alfred? Babs? Dick?   
What!? *Tell me*!"  
  
Leslie sighed in resignation. She turned to Bullock and gave him an   
imperceptible nod. In answer, Bullock reached into his rumpled jacket and pulled   
out a carelessly folded 8x10 yellow envelope.   
  
"Doc--" Bullock started, but stopped. Reluctantly, he handed the envelope to   
Bruce. Bruce took it in nerveless fingers. "I'm sorry, Doc. I wish I could say   
more, but--" Bullock stopped, and turned away. Forgetting the hospital's 'No   
Smoking' rule, he took out his signature stogie and lit it.   
  
Soon, the cheap cigar's vile odor permeated through the otherwise disinfectant   
smells.  
  
Bruce looked to Leslie for encouragement, but she only dropped her eyes, and to   
Bruce's astonishment blew her nose and wiped her eyes. His hands shaking, Bruce   
took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and slowly removed the envelope's   
contents.  
  
His first instinct was to turn and run, screaming in horror and denial over what   
these monsters had done to Barbara. His mind refused to process the information.   
The images flashed before him in a strange, MTV-like quick cut.   
  
Agonized at what he'd seen, Bruce hastily shoved the photos back into the   
envelope. But the images wouldn't go away. They'd been seared into his brain.   
The unspeakable violations they'd inflicted on her while she lay helplessly   
unable to defend herself in a growing pool of her own blood made him physically   
ill.  
  
Leslie immediately shoved a bedpan in his hands, and Bruce retched for   
interminable minutes until he had nothing to left to give. But his body   
continued its forced method of trying to cleanse his soul of the abominations he   
just witnessed.  
  
Finally, his stomach stopped its involuntary heaving. Leslie placed a glass of   
water in his grateful hands, and Bruce gulped its contents in a single swallow.   
His body racked by violent shakes, Bruce refused any further assistance. When   
Bullock made a move as if to take the photos back, Bruce furiously snatched them   
back, holding them protectively close.  
  
Closing his eyes against what he knew was awaiting him, Bruce took several deep,   
calming breaths, and then, before he could change his mind, he pulled the photos   
out of the envelope again.  
  
They'd posed Barbara like some macabre mannequin, indulging their own insane   
whims. Bruce felt a single tear spill, travel down his cheek around the outline   
of his lips, down his chin, to splash at last at the final Polaroid.   
  
They'd painted a nightmarish clown smile on her pale face with her own blood.   
  
After he forced himself to go through each Polaroid, Bruce made himself go   
through each one again. And again. Until he'd memorized every humiliating   
violation they'd put his wife through. And with each image becoming indelibly   
imprinted in his mind, Bruce felt a cold rage increasingly consume him.  
  
Leslie's earlier words came back, "You have to be strong."   
  
Bruce nodded. Each snapshot was a stake being driven into his heart, killing his   
compassion, warmth, and humanity. In its place, a growing icy blackness was   
being born. Something frightening. Something ugly.  
  
"Bruce--?" Leslie's worried voice barely cut through his darkness.   
  
"The way I see it, Doc, they did this to hurt you. Everyone that means anything   
to you has been hurt in some way. With the two people who mean the most to you   
being hurt the most severely. And the guy on the phone did say that his boss--  
whoever that is--wanted the boy. We find the boss, we find your boy."  
  
"We find Dick, we find the scum who did this to Babs." Bruce stared balefully at   
Bullock and Leslie. " And when I'm done with him, there won't be enough left of   
him for an autopsy."  
  
"Bruce!" Leslie gasped, shocked by his words. She glanced at Bullock, who was   
looking steadily at Bruce.  
  
Bruce carefully swung his legs over the edge of the bed.   
  
"Where are my clothes?" he asked. "I'm going to visit my wife."  
  
****  
  
After checking in on Alfred and satisfying himself that his friend was sleeping   
soundly, Bruce made his way to the nurse's station and picked up the phone.  
  
"And just what do you think you're doing?" Leslie demanded.  
  
"Taxi," he growled.  
  
"Bruce, look at yourself. You're as weak as a sick puppy. We know that the  
gas you were exposed to is highly toxic--!"  
  
"Then why aren't I dead with a ridiculous grin plastered on my face?" he asked   
dismissively.  
  
"I can't answer that, yet. The blood samples I sent to the State Medical   
Examiner's office haven't come back yet. Until we know more about this gas, you   
need to remain here! Under observation!"  
  
"Sorry. I have work to do."  
  
"Bruce, will you *listen* to me!? Obviously, you either didn't receive a fatal   
dose, or you were gassed with a slightly different version of the chemical. But   
there's no sure way of knowing until--"  
  
Bruce turned his back to her. "Excuse me," he said, speaking into the phone. "I   
need a taxi at--"  
  
"Oh, for Heaven's sake! Give me that thing!" Leslie said disgustedly. She   
grabbed the receiver from his hand and replaced it in its cradle. "Come on, I'll   
drive you there myself. That way when you pass out, I'll be there to catch you,"   
she grumbled, adding under her breath, "Or maybe I'll knock you out myself!"  
  
****  
  
The still form looked less human than machine. Jagged green lines jumped in   
steady rhythm on an otherwise dark monitor, accompanied by an unnerving   
background drop of beeps and hisses.  
  
Masked and gowned, Bruce stared at her from the relative safety of the foot of   
the bed. Automatically, he pulled her chart and studied it. He allowed himself   
to fall into the role with which he was most familiar--that of doctor. With   
clinical detachment, he looked over the myriad notes and observations as if he   
were reviewing just another patient's chart.  
  
"Prognosis undetermined," he said dispassionately. "Or as the trauma surgeon so   
eloquently puts it, 'It's out of our hands now.'" He gave a short laugh. "It's   
out of our hands. Did you hear that, babe? It's out of our hands."  
  
He returned the medical chart to its hook at the foot of the bed. Glaring at the   
steady green line that recorded Barbara's heart rate, he turned back to her. As   
he looked at her still, sleeping form, Bruce struggled with a tempest raging   
within him.  
  
"He's right, you know. It *is* out of my hands, Babs. I can't save you. I   
couldn't save Dick. And I even let Alfred down. Top of the ninth, bases loaded,   
and I struck out." Hesitatingly, he moved up until he was standing over her.   
Remembering Dick's words about his love of sports' metaphors, Bruce gave her a   
half-smile.  
  
"You *do* know me, don't you? Better than anyone." His voice caught. "I can't   
live without you, Babs. I won't let you go without a fight. You're strong.  
Stronger than me. My colleagues say that it's out of our hands. Okay, dammit!"  
  
He reached his hand tentatively to her pale face and gently ran a single finger   
up and down her cheek.  
  
"I *know* that there's nothing else we can do!" Bruce went down on his knees and   
carefully picked up her hand. He brought it up to his lips and kissed it   
tenderly. He clasped her hand in both of his and shook it slightly.  
  
"You have strong hands, Babs. Not the hands of a pampered socialite wife, but of   
a woman with a mission. A mission to bring justice and closure to the lives of   
the many who've been victimized by the predators of our society."  
  
He looked at her hand as if through new eyes, studying it closely, moving it   
this way and that.  
  
"The same hand that can soothe a little boy's troubled forehead during a   
nightmare. And then knock some sense into a hulking brute who outweighs you by   
about a coupla hundred pounds." He gave her a half-grin.  
  
"So, I'm putting this in *your* hands, babe--into you're very strong, very   
capable hands. You're going to fight this. I won't *let* you quit! Babs, we all   
need you so much. Alfred needs you. Dicky needs his new mom. And babe, *I* need   
you."  
  
He thought about the mission he was about to undertake with a heavy guilt,   
knowing that he was about to dive into unfathomable seas. Knowing that once in,   
he might never be able to get out. How would he be able to carry on without his   
lifeline? He leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead, smoothing her   
long, red hair.  
  
"Please, don't leave me. Whatever happens, we'll be in it together, Babs. I   
vowed, 'For better or worse, in sickness and in health.' As far as I'm   
concerned, life *with* you will always be 'For better.' I love you, Red. Come   
back to me."  
  
****  
  
The feather-soft fingers gently soothing his forehead brought partial   
wakefulness.  
  
"Mom?" he mumbled. His sleepy question was answered with a loud giggle.  
  
"Sorry, little birdy, but Mommy ain't here. Just me."  
  
Dick's eyes snapped open. He was met with a strangely clad woman in white, clown   
make-up, a red and black costume, and a wide smile.  
  
"Hi, cutie! You can call me Harley!" The odd apparition held her hand out to   
him. Dick attempted to take her hand to shake, but discovered that he was held   
immobilized by the wrists. Harley burst into spontaneous laughter.  
  
"Oops! Sorry--I guess you're all 'tied up' at the moment!" Her pun sent her into   
more helpless peals of laughter. Her merriment was such that she started   
snorting.  
  
"Who are you?" Dick croaked. His question immediately brought a change in her   
demeanor.  
  
"I already told ya, kid. I'm Harley--whatsa matter? You can't hear so good?"  
  
"Why am I here?" he asked.  
  
"Boy, you sure are a question asker!" she complained. "What do I look like? The   
Riddler?"  
  
"Who?" he asked, confused.  
  
"Never mind. Eddie and I are good friends. I met him at Arkham during my   
internship. Brother could he ask questions! Riddles really. I thought he was   
going to drive me crazy a couple of times. But then I turned the tables on him--  
!"  
  
Dick just watched her without speaking. He had no idea what she was talking   
about.  
  
"Hey!" she said, lightly slapping him across the top of his head in mild pique.   
"You're supposed to say, 'Wow! How did you *ever* turn the tables on him?'"  
  
Dick blinked at her, blue eyes wide. Then in sudden annoyance he glared at her   
through narrowed eyes. Nevertheless, he decided it best to play along.  
  
"Wow. How did you ever turn the tables on him?" he asked with no inflection.  
  
Harley sighed. "I guess that's better than nothing," she allowed. Then with a   
huge grin, she added, "I'm *so* glad you asked. It was easy. I simply placed my   
hands on the bottom of the tabletop just so--" she demonstrated placing her   
hands on an invisible table. "--And pushed! BWHAHAHAHAHHA!!!!"  
  
She doubled over in helpless fits. Noticing that Dick was not laughing, she   
abruptly stopped, swallowing any remaining laughter.  
  
"Humph! I suppose you can do better?"  
  
"Sure! 'Cause when my mom gets a hold of you, you sure won't be laughing much."  
  
To Dick's surprise, that only seemed to send her into another round of helpless   
giggles.   
  
"Oh, you're right, kid! That *is* a good one! Your mom, huh? Should I run in   
fright already?"  
  
"Go ahead and laugh! You don't know who my mom *is*!"  
  
Harley's laughter died in her throat. Her face became threatening. "Don't tell   
me I don't know who Barbara Gordon *is* little birdy. She's the witch who wanted   
to persecute my Puddin' even after his psychiatric profile showed that he wasn't   
responsible for his actions."  
  
She became indescribably sad. "I *told* the judge that Jack couldn't function in   
a cell. That he *needed* to be free and roaming. That jail would break his   
tender spirit." She turned angry, baleful eyes on the small, helpless child.  
  
"But that Gordon *bitch* brought in some other quack psychologist who disputed   
my findings. She even *accused* me of crossing the doctor/patient professional   
line by falling in love. Can you imagine? Saying that falling in love is wrong?   
That my opinions were invalid because I had the nerve to be in love with my   
patient?"  
  
Harley angrily shook her head at the remembered pain. Unexpectedly, she smiled.   
"But, of course, I didn't let him go to jail. I busted him out." She giggled   
proudly. "And I've been my Puddin's gun moll ever since."  
  
"Gun moll?" Dick asked.  
  
"His main squeeze, you know? His girl!" She clasped her hands and smiled   
dreamily. "His *only* girl."  
  
"Who's 'Pudding'?" Dick asked, distastefully.  
  
She sat down next to him on the small cot and playfully ruffled his hair.   
"You'll find out soon enough, little birdy. Both you and your dreamboat Daddy.   
He probably knows about your mom by now. And that straight-laced Englishman. You   
can bet Daddy'll be coming soon."   
  
She grinned broadly and nodded in satisfaction.  
  
"Yes, your daddy will figure it out, and I'm sure we'll be seeing him soon."  
  
****  
  
Chapter Fifteen  
  
The rage building inside him finally exploded.   
  
When he'd opened the front door to the manor, he'd been greeted by a large, dark   
stain in the entrance foyer. Stepping carefully around it, he'd then encountered   
the half-eaten dinner left on the immaculately set table. Unable to stand the   
terrible reminders of the violation of the sanctity of his home, Bruce hurried   
downstairs to the Batcave.   
  
Now, standing before the Crays' monitors, he tormented himself by repeatedly   
playing the security recordings of Barbara lying helplessly, bleeding on the   
floor while her attackers posed her like a broken doll. The images plagued at   
the tortured recesses of his mind as he forced himself to watch.  
  
Powerless against the blackness welling up in his soul, Bruce picked up a   
specimen beaker and threw it clear across the Batcave. It crashed somewhere in   
the dim distance, the tinkling sounds of glass shattering echoing back and forth   
along the endless underground labyrinth.   
  
But Bruce didn't hear it. He was too busy smashing anything that wasn't nailed   
down--lab equipment, computer monitors, chairs. He picked up a steel rod and was   
about to start on the Batmobile when he suddenly stopped, his fury spent.  
  
"I'm sorry, Babs," he cried out raggedly. "For not being there for you. And our   
baby." Nerveless fingers dropped the rod, but before it hit the floor, Bruce's   
knees gave way, and he collapsed...  
  
The huddled shadow lay unmoving in the middle of the murky cave. The man who'd   
always prided himself in being surrounded by the light of family and friends,   
who loved to spend his day making sick children well, while giving hope to   
distraught parents, felt he no longer had anything left to live for, that all   
hope was gone.  
  
The same cold, grimness that enveloped him in the hospital returned, eating at   
his very soul, infusing the remaining, empty shell with new purpose...  
  
Bruce slowly looked up.  
  
Among the cave's stalactites, an endless swarm of bats fluttered nervously,   
their high-pitched cries strangely drawing him. Suddenly, a single, giant bat   
detached itself from the rest and flew straight at him, its claws and sharp   
teeth threatening.  
  
Bruce sat unmoving, his blood hammering thunderously in his ears, sweat   
trickling into his eyes. As the monster approached, Bruce felt no fear. Slowly,   
he stood and waited.  
  
The creature turned at the last possible moment and disappeared into the cave's   
gloomy recesses.  
  
"I hear you," Bruce whispered. "I know what I must become."  
  
****  
  
The next few hours past quickly, too quickly. He knew that he wasn't as prepared   
as he'd have wanted to be, *needed* to be, but time was running out. For Dick.  
  
Looking over his plans and designs, he nodded and proceeded towards the uniform   
vault. Releasing the vacuum seal, Bruce stood aside as the interior atmosphere   
equalized with that of the cave. He heard the distinct hiss of pressurized   
vapors being suddenly released.  
  
As the vault door swung open, it revealed its contents--Gotham's newest   
nighttime hunter.  
  
Bruce awkwardly donned the uniform. He remembered being bothered by Babs'   
Batwoman costume because it was made of nothing more than spandex. She was   
literally taking her own life in her hands in more ways than one. All she had to   
rely on were her quick reflexes and superior acrobatic skills.  
  
He glanced at her original Batwoman costume, now hanging inside a special glass   
display case, and shook his head in disapproval. He remembered confronting her   
about it soon after the incident at the chemical plant...  
  
****  
  
"Even the police wear Kevlar vests today," Bruce insisted. "Babs--you might be   
some kind of a hotshot superhero by night--but you're *still* my wife! I can't   
in all good conscience just stand by and let you go into battle without adequate   
protection!"  
  
"Oh, Bruce, you're overreacting," Barbara said dismissively. "My acrobatic   
skills and my martial arts training *are* my protection--not to mention the fact   
that the Gotham underworld is populated by lousy shots and even worse hand-to-  
hand fighters. Besides, I can hardly swing through the city's rooftops wearing a   
Kevlar vest!"  
  
"Okay, that's true!" Bruce agreed readily. "That wouldn't be practical. But,   
Babs, there *are* alternatives. WayneTech is developing a new material for   
military and police use. It's a Nomex/Kevlar weave currently being field-tested   
by the R and D department."  
  
He paused, knowing he'd caught her attention.   
  
"Okay, Bruce," Barbara nodded. "I'm listening." Excited by her response, he   
grabbed her by the waist and swung her around.  
  
"Give me a couple of days," he said. "I promise you, you won't regret this."   
With that Bruce pulled her in and kissed her deeply. Releasing her, he hurried   
to the Cray station. Without even being aware that he was doing it, Bruce's   
brilliant mind recalled the formula for the material and automatically made some   
mental adjustments.  
  
Intrigued, he input the adjusted formula, and within minutes, nodded as the   
monitor showed him a 3-D molecule for a new, improved triple-strength   
Nomex/Kevlar weave.  
  
"This stuff could stop a small arsenal," he muttered.   
  
Bruce constructed Babs' new uniform, satisfied that it would be highly wearable-  
-much like spandex--and weighing little more than a police officer's uniform.   
Better yet, the material was almost entirely bullet- and fireproof.  
  
Bruce recalled Barbara's pleased expression when he'd presented her with the new   
suit. His expectations for the uniform's flexibility and ease of use were soon   
exceeded.   
  
Bruce stood back, watching awestruck as Batwoman put her new costume through its   
paces on the training apparatuses. Within moments Dick joined her and challenged   
her to greater and more difficult maneuvers.  
  
To Bruce's astonishment and pride, Barbara was soon forced to concede to the   
boy's superior acrobatic skills...  
  
****  
  
Coming back to the present, Bruce held the new cape and cowl in his hands,   
carefully studying them for imperfections. The cowl was heavily reinforced with   
a triple-weave Kevlar, while the cape was constructed of triple-weave Nomex,   
rendering them extra-bulletproof and fireproof respectively.  
  
Bruce stepped to the mirror and donned the cape and cowl. His eyes momentarily   
widened at the effect. The ever-present bats fluttered among the rafters, their   
high-pitched cries echoing their approval. Before him stood a terrible   
apparition of the night, sure to instill cold fear into any and all who beheld   
him--the Batman.  
  
"I don't want this!" Bruce said softly. And then, his voice rising with   
vehemence, he added, "But God help me at what I might possibly become once I   
find those who've destroyed my family and murdered my unborn child."  
  
He scowled darkly, the expression making him even more terrible. Eyes narrowing,   
Bruce pressed a button on the palm-sized remote in his hand. Immediately, the   
Batcave's illumination went out. He was now standing in absolute blackness.  
  
How appropriate, he thought grimly.  
  
Reaching up to a certain spot on his cowl, he applied a gentle pressure.   
Instantly, the darkened cave appeared before him in a strange greenish hue.   
Bruce nodded, satisfied.  
  
The night vision optics he installed directly into the cowl would allow him to   
see even in total darkness. Plus, they had the added enhancement of concealing   
his eyes with eerie, one-way lenses. Abruptly, he turned away and walked towards   
the equipment table.  
  
Methodically, Bruce loaded the necessary materials into his utility belt. He   
checked each compartment's seal and satisfied, placed the belt around his narrow   
waist. He then crossed the cave towards the training area. This would be the   
first and only time he'd test the costume and equipment for ease of use.  
  
"Hopefully, I won't fall flat on my face," he muttered, his cape whipping behind   
him.   
  
He spent the better part of the next few hours training, re-honing the martial   
arts that had never quite stopped being a part of his daily regimen. As he   
whirled, leaped, and kicked out at the practice dummies, again Bruce wondered at   
his new determination to strike a fellow human being in anger. It went against   
everything he'd been taught by his parents.  
  
Even after Harvey Dent had been captured and brought to justice, all Bruce had   
wished for the tortured, sick soul who'd cold-bloodedly murdered his mother and   
father was that his former friend should receive the proper medical and   
psychological care.  
  
Bruce most certainly never considered taking the law into his own hands and   
going after Dent himself. And yet, that was exactly what Barbara had done. What   
had possessed her to do so? To become a costumed vigilante? A hunter of the   
night?  
  
Bruce shook off the darkness that threatened to consume him. Since he'd knelt   
next to Barbara, watched her lying on the hospital bed, still and near death,   
Bruce knew that he was on the verge of stepping off a steep precipice into a   
yawning chasm that called to him, waiting to swallow him whole.  
  
He shook himself ruefully.   
  
"Aren't *we* being a little grim tonight?" he muttered. He glanced towards the   
complicated apparatuses that Barbara had installed in the gym and decided that   
he needed further practice.   
  
"I still need to get the hang of this ridiculous cape," he reminded himself. As   
if to prove his point, the cape decided at this moment to get entangled between   
his legs, and Bruce punctuated his statement by tripping onto the practice mat.   
  
"Who'da thought it necessary to have to do a *dress rehearsal* before chasing   
crooks," he grumbled. In fact, Bruce hadn't considered the need to maybe   
*practice* with the costume, until he remembered Alfred's comment that Barbara   
had had to practice for several days before becoming used to *her* cape at   
first. And his was more than five times as heavy as hers.  
  
Bruce sighed and gazed up at the complicated setup. Shrugging, he leaped onto   
the first apparatus. Bruce soon discovered the difficulty of learning to   
maneuver with the heavy cape. To his infinite embarrassment, he tripped over the   
long cape more often than he cared to recall during the course of the session.  
  
As he flew from one apparatus to another, executing one difficult maneuver after   
another, Bruce admitted that he was glad he'd taken the time to practice. He'd   
almost completed his routine without mishap, when he suddenly misjudged a   
handhold and ended up in an ignominious heap on the floor.  
  
Grimacing, he looked up at the swing bar he'd missed and sighed. He'd been a   
superior gymnast and martial artist while in school, but Bruce admitted   
privately that an acrobat, he wasn't.   
  
Bruce had no illusions about his abilities. He knew that he was still out of   
training. He'd been working out and was in better shape than he'd been in years;   
however, he wasn't up to Babs' acrobatics--and he'd never be able to even   
*touch* Dick's skill.  
  
Still, while he wasn't 100 percent sure of his control, Bruce felt that he   
wouldn't disgrace himself in a hand-to-hand battle. Too late to worry about it.  
  
Bruce reflected on his parents' legacy, their lessons of love and tolerance and   
kindness to others. He'd learned their lessons well.   
  
He now stood at the cusp of battle never having struck another human being in   
anger in his entire life. When the chips fell, would he be able to fight? He   
thought again of his wife lying near death, of Dicky in the hands of violent   
kidnappers, of Alfred hurt and left lying in a darkened alley.  
  
Of his unborn child.  
  
This time, he allowed the cold fury to overtake him and envelop him in its icy   
grip. He knew then that there was no question of his holding back. The only   
question was--how far would he go?   
  
He strode back to the computer station to continue his electronic search for his   
family's attacker. When he reached the work station, he turned around and gazed   
out at Barbara's 'Bat-Lair.' A feeling of overwhelming loss superimposed with a   
sense of betrayal and anger washed over him.  
  
"And if I have any say in it, this whole preposterous Bat-routine will also be   
put to rest at the end of this nightmare!"  
  
He whirled around and in simmering anger sat down at the workstation,   
immediately getting back to work. This time, keeping the cowl on.  
  
In the shadows, the nocturnal inhabitants of the cave fluttered nervously as if   
sensing a threatening darkness suddenly descending on their domain...  
  
Batman again brought up the security video of his wife's torture. He went over   
the tape frame by frame. He saw the delivery truck pull up to the front portico   
and the driver jump out. He then buzzed the doorbell and waited. The next   
instant, two dark shadows materialized from behind him. The slender one came up   
to him and tapped him between the shoulder blades.  
  
When the deliveryman turned, the newcomer sprayed him fully on the face with a   
lapel flower. The poor man went down instantly. The video camera caught the   
almost instantaneous effects of the spray as it worked its way into his system.   
Bruce saw the man's features contort into a gruesome parody of a wide grin.  
  
Batman zoomed in on each man's facial features. While the victim was obviously   
dead, his killer had an almost mirror image of the death-mask grin permanently   
stamped on his own features. Moreover, his henchman was heavily made up as a   
clown.  
  
Batman forced himself to watch the maniacally laughing man as he shot Barbara   
and posed her in increasingly grotesque positions. As he watched, something in   
Barbara's face suddenly caught his attention. He quickly rewound the tape and   
then played it again. Unsure of what he'd seen, he played it once more,   
repeating it five more times.  
  
Finally, he slowed the tape to one-quarter speed, and intensely studied   
Barbara's face. What was it, he wondered? About to discard the hunch to mere   
imagination, he stopped.  
  
There it was. Barbara's eyelids were blinking in a pattern. Stopping the tape   
once again, he started it at less than quarter speed, zooming in to her eyes.  
  
Before him, Barbara's beautiful green eyes gazed out, unfocused from the pain,   
slipping into unconsciousness, and yet, for the briefest moment, she looked   
directly into the security camera and whispered his name, "Bruce...," while   
blinking rapidly in a definite pattern.  
  
"Morse Code," he realized. He felt a surge of pride wash over him. Even at her   
most vulnerable and so near death, she'd reached out to him, trusting him to   
decipher her last desperate message. Swallowing and taking several deep breaths   
to fight off the waves of despair that threatened to defeat him, he hurriedly   
ran the short section of video through the Crays for analysis.  
  
The code was quickly translated, two words--Jack and Ace.  
  
"Jack Napier?" Batman muttered. "But how? I *saw* him fall into that chemical   
vat." He stopped, blinking in sudden understanding. He ran an additional search   
in Barbara's records under 'Jack Napier.' Several hits came up. A recent entry   
caught his attention, dated the same day of Dicky's adoption--the day of the   
attack at the Skyline Restaurant.   
  
A digital photograph of the recorded hologram was on file. Unsurprisingly, it   
was the same maniac who'd shot Barbara. He scanned over the file for any new   
information. Near the end of the entry, he saw a link for additional background   
information on the criminal.  
  
Bruce was about to turn off the system, when something caught his attention--  
'Psychiatric evaluation by Dr. Harleen Quinzel.' Where had he heard *that* name   
before? So familiar, yet try as he might, he couldn't place it. He scanned the   
psychiatric report, reading quickly at first, but then slowing down to reread   
areas of interest. He shook his head in disgust.  
  
The report was full of glowing terms of praise for the subject. In answer to   
Napier's supposed systemic antisocial behavior, which compelled him to commit   
assault and battery, armed robbery, and even murder, Quinzel assessed that he   
was a product of his abusive childhood. That he was really a loving, caring man   
who only needed to be understood.   
  
"Doesn't sound very professional," he muttered. "Where did this quack get her   
medical license?" He paused reading further. "So Napier didn't die, after all.   
Ace Chemicals--where it all began." He powered down the system and hurried to   
what Alfred euphemistically called 'the Car.'  
  
Batman stopped, hands on hips, admiring the magnificent machine, his black mood   
momentarily lifted. He recognized the design, of course. It was one of his own.   
He remembered the day he designed it as if it were yesterday.   
  
He'd thought that his wife's strange request was little more than a whimsy...  
  
****  
  
They were eating breakfast and he was late for work. As he was wolfing down his   
pancakes, much to Alfred's disapproval, Barbara had somehow brought the   
conversation to cars--fast cars, environmentally safe cars, cars powered by   
alternative fuels.  
  
"Don't you think that a solar-powered car would be practical, dear?" she asked.   
He remembered choking on his pancakes at the absurdity of the suggestion.   
  
"Solar powered?" he'd asked in disbelief. "And what happens at night? Or when   
the sky's overcast?"  
  
"Well, can't the batteries be charged for just that reason?" Bruce recalled the   
innocent look in her beautiful green eyes. He'd almost been unable to answer   
her, because as always he'd fallen deeply under their spell. "Bruce?"  
  
He blinked, realizing she'd asked a question. "What? Oh! Batteries--No!" he'd   
insisted. "Not enough power. And you'd have to have enormous batteries to keep   
up that kind of charge. No, practically speaking, I'd recommend a nuclear   
reactor as an alternative fuel."  
  
"What? Wouldn't that be dangerous?" she asked. "I mean a nuclear reactor in the   
middle of town? A car isn't exactly a submarine. If something happened to the   
reactor, it wouldn't have an ocean to absorb the radiation."  
  
Bruce remembered his smirk. "Not if it's nuclear fusion--it's clean, and you can   
get it from water. Wayne Tech is already experimenting with a practical   
application for it. Soon, we're going to be petitioning the city council for the   
rights to build a power plant that will provide the city with all the energy it   
needs for the next thousand years."  
  
"How would that translate into a car's engine?" she asked, fascinated. Bruce   
studied his wife's face for a moment, and then smiling told her to meet him for   
lunch.  
  
"I don't have time right now to design an engine for you, love, but give me till   
lunch. I promise, I'll have the safest, cleanest engine design for you by then.   
And it'll have a bit of kick, too." He gazed at her with open longing. "And what   
do *I* get in return?"   
  
Her blush was all the incentive he needed...   
  
Standing before the futuristic vehicle, Batman still couldn't believe that she'd   
actually had the darn thing built. And yes, 'the Car'--or 'Batmobile,' as Bruce   
privately called it--did indeed have a 'bit of a kick.'  
  
****  
  
End of Part 3  



End file.
